The Road Less Travelled By
by Moonofwinds
Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer. Pairings: F-W-B J/P, WIP M/C. (May or may not be ongoing).
1. Chapter 1

**The Road Less Travelled By**

This is a plot that won't leave my head. May or may not be ongoing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.

Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.

Warning: war, M/M robots

Pairings: Jazz/ Prowl (friends with benefits), Mirage/ Cliffjumper (friendship/preslash/who-the-frick-knows)

**Klik: One minute, **1.2 kliks

**Breem: 8.3 minutes, ** 9-ish kliks

**Joor: One Hour, **not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours

**Mega-cycle: One Day,** 93 hours/ joors

**Orn: One Week**, 13 mega-cycles

**Quartex: One Month,** 4 orns

**Stellar Cycle: One Year,** 7.5 quartexes

**Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: **83 stellar cycles.

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

"Have you never made a mistake?" Mirage demanded, coolant tears pooling in his optics as grief, shame, and rage overwhelmed him, triggered by yet another conflict raged between he and Cliffjumper. "Have you never made a mistake that you will never stop paying for?"

Cliffjumper did not have time to be stunned by Mirage's demand. Disappeared and as he reappeared he punched Cliffjumper hard in the side of his helm. It was next to impossible for Cliffjumper to land a counter attack as Mirage continued the pattern of appearing and disappearing, landing punches and kicks as he seemed to dance around Cliffjumper. The mini bot growled, and tried to listen, just for a second. He heard Mirage's vocalizer hitch, and guessing Mirage's location, Cliffjumper ducked low to avoid any potential oncoming blows, and swung his leg out, catching Mirage's legs and pulling them out from under him. Mirage fell hard on his back, and reappeared. They stared at each other, tears stained Mirage's faceplates, and his intakes were whining with the force of each inhale, his optics were large and bright, almost glimmering behind the tears.

Cliffjumper could only look down at him confusion twisting his own faceplates. Suddenly, and without another word, Mirage transformed, disappeared and raced back out of the Ark and into the night. A cloud of sand was the only thing that signalled his path. For a moment, Cliffjumper debated calling Prowl, or Jazz, even Ratchet. Instead, he transformed himself and chasing after Mirage. There was no question, Cliffjumper was going to find out what the Pit just happened. Slag it all, he did not like having his aft handed to him by a Towers mech.

* * *

_Cybertron, 9,000,000 B.C.E_

Jazz made his way down the dreary street. His movements were fluid, and he seemed at ease. Truthfully every step was made with murderous intent. He had tracked his quarry to this run down neighbourhood bordering Praxus' red light district. All he wanted to do was slip into that hotel and terminate the mech in question, but Jazz had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. This neighbourhood was within Prowl's patrol and Jazz had long ago promised that if the Prime's orders ever brought Jazz within the scope of Prowl's patrol, he would warn the Enforcer first.

This promise had come in handy. On more than one occasion Jazz had been able to call Prowl in as reinforcement, of sorts, when an assignment got out of hand. Prowl never assisted in the assassinations but if there was danger of collateral damage, Prowl could be trusted to protect the innocent. And to cover Jazz's back if his target had too many "friends" with him/her and the fight managed to pour into the streets. Having a friend amongst the Praxian Enforcers came in handy, though not terribly often. Praxus claimed neutrality in the civil war that threatened Sentinel Prime's reign. Technically, his assassins should never be permitted to take a single step into the city-state. But technically, Sentinel Prime was the ruler of all of Cybertron, even if some of the city-states chose to forget this fact.

They met at a small cafe, where Prowl often refueled during his patrols. Jazz almost flounced in. There was nothing he enjoyed more than coercing an optic ridge raise from his Enforcer friend. Prowl was already sitting at the corner booth, farthest from the door. It offered him line of sight, he could see all who entered and exited the establishment. And it offered them privacy. Jazz loved to see Prowl with his doorwings fully extended to the sides, filling his side of the booth. There was nothing quite so erotic as doorwings. Even if Jazz wasn't actually allowed to touch them.

"What has brought you to Praxus this time?" Prowl asked. It was not unknown to the government of Praxus that the Prime sent his assigns in from time to time when targets of his wrath took refuge in Praxus. The official order was to ignore the intrusions unless they became an issue for public safety. Enforcers were neither to help nor to hinder the assassins. Prowl took leeway with the second half of the order. Though he never helped Jazz terminate a target, or tidy up the scene, Prowl did offer Jazz assistance when he came under fire. Only, of course, if he happened to be patrolling nearby.

"One of Megatron's ghosts is hidin' out in Praxus," Jazz explained. "Don't know if he's got a target himself but Sentinel Prime's ordered he be terminated."

"And he is hiding in my neighbourhood?" Prowl asked, exasperated to a certain degree.

"Aren't they always?" Jazz asked with some cheek. "Yer patrol's the worst of the city, my mech."

"Too true," Prowl replied. "Do you expect any trouble?"

"He's hiding out in the Recharge 6 motel down the block," Jazz explained. "Ya might want to be nearby if anything slips into the hallways."

"Of course," Prowl murmured. "Do you enjoy your work?"

"Sometimes," Jazz replied, shrugging. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," Prowl echoed. "I'll be near."

"That's my Prowler," Jazz said, he rose from the booth. "Maybe we can catch a cube before I head back to Iacon?"

"We can try," Prowl replied. "You still owe me. And my designation is Prowl, Jazz."

* * *

Mirage didn't recharge on the berth. Never mind that it was possibly the most disgusting berth he had ever seen, lubricants and transfluids were dried to its padding; the berth is the first place someone would look, and shoot. Whether it was the Prime's assassin, or his former mentor, too many mechs had their sights set on extinguishing Mirage's spark. He recharged in the corner farthest from the berth. It was not much of a distance, the room was barely more more than a closet. But it was all he could afford. How far he had fallen... No. No. Don't think about it. Never think about it. The young mech curled his legs to his chassis and offlined his optics. No one would see him if they entered his room. His cloaking mod was active, concealing him from anyone's sight.

He was going through energon at a dramatic rate, using his mod so much, but there was no other way for Mirage to recharge, or to even navigate the streets. The stress of his circumstances was stretching Mirage distressingly thin but he was not quite ready yet to give in and to just let himself be deactivated. Perhaps he should just give up, lay down, and deactivate. It had to be less painful than this. But Mirage was afraid, deeply afraid of the hereafter. Surely the only place he would go was to Unicron's grasp. That fear kept Mirage alive, but for how much longer? Mirage sank into a fitful recharge only to be woken less than a joor later as the lock on his motel door disengaged and the door was slowly eased open. Stark terror lit through his systems, he had been found! In desperation, and the vain hope at avoiding capture, or deactivation, Mirage shut down his fans and forced his systems to run silent. It would not take long for him to overheat but maybe they would leave before that happened.

The mech made no sound. His peds were eerily quiet as he walked, to the berth and poked about with his pistol. Mirage watched, with optics gleaming with fear. There was no trace of Mirage, or Spectre as the Decepticons had called him in the room. What few possessions Mirage had were safely tucked away in his subspace. With any luck, the Autobot would give up and leave, thinking Mirage was not in fact in the room.

* * *

Jazz was certain the slippery 'Con was in the room. He couldn't hear him, or see him, but Jazz was certain he was here. The last few nights Jazz had been so close to catching the ghost that the 'Con never stopped to recharge. No mech could go that long without recharge, and judging by his last few choices of accommodations, he did not have the credits to spare on a wasted room. Except, if he was in the room, why was he not firing at Jazz's back? It smelled like a trick, some devious little 'Con trick. The lock Jazz had re-engaged click off, drawing Jazz's, and unbeknownst to him, Mirage's attention to the door. Jazz ducked between the far wall and the berth. A large mech filled the doorway, and stepped inside. Red optics glowed in the dark room.

"Spectre," the Decepticon said in a mechanical voice. "Escape: Impossible. Deactivation... Autobot!"

"Slag," Jazz swore, and he ducked low as the 'Con fired at his location. Crawling along the floor just a few metres. He shot at the 'Con from the end of the berth.

"Prowl, I need some help," Jazz called over the comm. "I've got a big old 'Con between me'n the door.

"I'll be right up," Prowl replied. Reliable mech that he was, he had been waiting in the lobby, just in case civilians were endanger.

The voice was unmistakeable. Only one 'Con spoke like that. Jazz cursed and ducked low behind the berth. He was cornered, and he really, truly hated being cornered. Fragging psychic hadn't even seen him; he had felt Jazz's mind. What the frag was Soundwave doing with this ghost? Soundwave zeroed in on Jazz's cover and aimed his blaster, intent on eliminating the meddlesome Autobot. A loud crackle exploded behind Soundwave as the locking mechanism was destroyed, and the door manually pushed open. Prowl fired through the opened door. It was unable to slide shut now. Soundwave faltered as Prowl's blast struck him high on the chassis. Focused on Prowl now, he fired back, barely missing the Enforcer as he dove back into the hallway. Immediately Jazz fired at Soundwave, before the 'Con could go after Prowl again.

Soundwave knew there was no winning this fight, not with yet another Autobot entering the fray. The room was too small for him to maneouver. Taking fire from Jazz, he charged the door just Prowl flew through it. Catching the Enforcer by the arm, Soundwave hurled him into Jazz. Before they could tumble free from each other Soundwave was at the door. He turned away from the door and as he aimed at the downed Autobots, a shot erupted from the corner and struck him in his leg. Infuriated, he raised his blaster and fired directly at the spot where Mirage was crouched. He was immensely pleased by Mirage's cry and the satisfying pain, and horror he heard in Mirage's screaming from processor. Unfortunately, he could not stay to verify his shot was fatal, and he fled, limping down the hall.

Jazz stumbled free from Prowl, and looked over his shoulder to confirm his friend was in one piece. Prowl stretched out his doorwings and gave Jazz a curt nod. Ever an Enforcer, Prowl stepped past Jazz even as the saboteur raised his gun and pointed it at the magician who who came in and out of visibility. He clutched his abdomen as energon poured through his digits. Mirage did not even attempt reach for his fallen gun before Prowl was almost on top of him. Seeing the Praxian Enforcer baring down on him, Mirage let out a very undignified squeak.

"You are going to deactivate if we do not stop the bleeding," Prowl said in a perfectly neutral tone. Fear, pain, and energon loss clouded Mirage's optics.

"I'm rather sure that was the point," Mirage replied in a thin, wavering voice. He looked from Prowl to Jazz, and spoke to Jazz specifically. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"Right on that count," Jazz admitted with some ambivalence. "All the same, ya might as well let Prowler stop the bleeding."

"Prowl, Jazz, Prowl," Prowl grumbled as he reached into Mirage's wound, the moment Mirage moved his hand away. The wounded mech gasped and shook with pain. Prowl had nothing to offer him to ease it. He pushed Mirage onto his back, and hurriedly clamped off the severed lines. By when he sat back on his peds his servos were covered with Mirage's energon and coolant. It appeared he had stopped the bleeding. Mirage did, however need proper medical care, urgently.

"I don't understand," Mirage said when Prowl had finished, optics no more clear than before, but no more dim or clouded.

"My friend Prowl here is just an Enforcer," Jazz explained.

"We have a deal," Prowl added. "I ignored is activities as long as I am not witness to them."

"But you're here now," Mirage said, skeptically.

"I am prepared to save his plating when necessary," Prowl replied. "Praxus remains neutral, and as such so are the Enforcers in this city. I imagine that is why you picked Praxus as your hiding place?"

"That and Towers mechs aren't unknown here," Mirage said. Not that it had mattered, he hadn't even been in Praxus for one night.

"So what did you do to frag Megatron off," Jazz asked, still standing a few steps behind Prowl, debating what to do about Mirage. "Spectre, was it?"

"Mirage. I disobeyed an order."

"That's it?" Jazz snorted. Already, the 'Con's story sounded dubious.

"And shot the mech would was going through with the order," Mirage added.

"What was the order?" Prowl asked. Jazz's tone, and his posture caused Prowl to suspect that his friend was debating just knocking him offline, just for a few kliks, long enough to "take care" of Mirage. Prowl preferred to avoid the fall out from such a move.

"A mech backed out of an arms deal with Megatron," Mirage explained. He offlined his optics as he recounted the mission. "I was sent with a more... Experienced 'Con. I was used to working alone, or with Soundwave retrieving information. I thought it was strange that this mech was on an assignment with me. I thought I was supposed to retrieve Megatron's credits. When we broke in to the dealer's home, we caught her mate by surprise and my partner shot... shot him. Just like that. He wasn't even the dealer! The dealer came running in and he shot her too, but didn't kill her. He told me to get the sparkling. I didn't even know there was one. I asked why. He was going to kill the sparkling in from of her before he killed her."

"You shot him instead," Jazz sighed. Wasn't this fabulous? A 'Con with a conscience.

"In the faceplates," Mirage recalled, mirthlessly. "I retrieved the credits, and returned to Megatron."

"Are you a slagging glitch?" Jazz exclaimed. "You're lucky Megatron didn't deactivate you on the spot."

"No, I'm not," Mirage replied. Wasn't it funny, he was so numb now that tears didn't come to his optics when he recounted his punishment. "Yes, I'm a glitch-helmed idiot, but I'm not, I wasn't lucky. I gave Megatron the credits. He didn't blow up. He had me restrained. Then he went and got my brother. He deactivated Figment in front of me."

"Pit," Jazz grimaced. He knelt down beside Prowl and rubbed this tip of his olfactory ridge with two digits,

"Figment had no idea what was going on," Mirage continued. "He looked alarmed to see me restrained. And then he was deactivated. Megatron told me that mercy had no place in the Decepticon army, and if I wanted to live, I would never forget that. And I would never disobey an order again. I was supposed to go the brig, but I broke free and used my cloaking mod.

"How the frag old are you?" Jazz asked, taking a good look at the finely built mech laying sprawled out in front of him. He didn't want to believe Mirage but his training in special operations had taught him well how to read a mech.

"Two vorns, and a few stellar cycles," Mirage answered truthfully.

"Fragging Pit," Jazz swore. "Recruiting sparklings..."

Mirage dimmed his optics just slightly at the comment, but in the end he had to agree, and he said: "who else would be stupid enough to fall under his spell?"

It was an open wound, more painful than the hole Soundwave had made in his narrow abdomen. Jazz knew one thing for certain; he could not deactivate Mirage. Not unless he found information that caught Mirage in a lie. Sentinel Prime was not going to be happy. On the other hand, who said Jazz had to tell the Prime anything? Surprising both Prowl and Mirage, and earning a yelp from Mirage, Jazz quickly, but gently picked Mirage up off the floor, cradling him in such a way as to not damage him any further.

"So Prowler ya know any medics that's keep their traps shut?" Jazz asked Prowl with his widest smile.

"You should be thankful I have no desire to advancement," Prowl replied. "An Enforcer who wanted to rise through the ranks wouldn't know any such people."

"Awesome," Jazz cheered. "Who's the mech?"

"My half-brother," Prowl replied. Mirage couldn't wrap is processor around what was happening. Shock was beginning to overwhelm his systems and he slipped mercifully offline.

* * *

"Look what the cyber fox dragged in," the brightly painted mech exclaimed when he opened his door and saw Prowl, and saw the energon on his servos. "What sort of trouble have you found yourself in?"

"Not me, Smokescreen," Prowl stepped in door his brother's dwelling as Smokescreen stepped aside. Smokescreen frowned when he saw Jazz, and the offline Mirage. "Him. His designation is Mirage."

"I'll remind you I'm a psychiatrist," Smokescreen complained, and venting, added. "Bring him in. Lay him on the couch."

"Thank you, Smokescreen," Prowl said. "I doubt you've forgotten your surgical rotation."

"Lucky for this one, no," Smokescreen replied. "I imagine the reason you've not brought Mirage to the hospital is because of your friend here."

"Guilty," Jazz said as he arranged Mirage on the couch. "Didn't know Prowler had a brother?"

"I'm the less reputable one," Smokescreen explained. "And you're an Autobot. Are you thinking of enlisting, Prowl?"

"Yes he is, no I am not," Prowl replied. "Jazz is a friend. I find myself frequently cleaning up after his messes."

"I can't imagine your lieutenant knows of this," Smokescreen mused. "This behaviour is far more befitting of me. Remember, Prowl, you don't want to take after the black sheep of the family."

"Which one of us is the bastard, Smokescreen?" Prowl asked, revealing more of himself to Jazz with those words than he had in the entire span of stellar-cycles they had known each other.

"That doesn't make you disreputable. But it is why you're a workaholic," Smokescreen replied as he patched up Mirage as best he could without more equipment. "Every waking moment is spent trying to prove your worth to the Enforcers. That's also why I don't understand how you've gotten yourself tangled up in this sort of mess."

Prowl didn't disagree. Jazz looked from Prowl to Smokescreen. This was the most insight he had ever gotten into the workings of Prowl's processor. It intrigued him that Prowl would let something as out of his control as illegitimacy in anyway direct his course in life. The idea wasn't very logical, and it did not seem at all like Prowl.

"It matters, Jazz," Prowl said, as if sensing Jazz's thoughts. "Our sire is Chief Enforcer of the first district of Praxus. Anything I do must be that much better than my colleagues or it would appear as though the only reason I have my job is because I am his bastard."

"Younglinghood baggage," Smokescreen pronounced. "Alright. I need to replace his damaged plating. Might as well replace the patch as well. It looks like someone cut a chunk of his plating out and slapped a crude patch over it."

"Slag it," Jazz grumbled. Mirage had probably excised his Decepticon insignia instead of just sanding it off. The more Jazz thought of it, the more he hated Megatron. If Mirage wasn't just a foolish mechling, he had done some drastic things to back up his story.

"Can he stay with you?" Prowl asked his brother. "For all intents and purposes, he needs to be... Deactivated. Officially, you understand."

"Who did he frag off?" Smokescreen asked. He wished for a brief moment that he had not opened his door.

"Megatron, and Sentinel Prime," Jazz replied, and he smiled a humourless smile. "Talent mechling."

"Primus help me," Smokescreen prayed. "He has to stay with me now, or go to a clinic anyways. I don't have spare plating laying around. But I can get some. I can't do anything about his energon depletion, his levels will have to resolve on their own."

"Thanks Smokey," Jazz said. "I need to report his demise to Sentinel Prime. I owe you a cube, Prowl."

"You owe me several," Prowl replied, he waved Jazz off with a flick of his wrist. Smokescreen stood and retrieved a warming blanket and placed it over his new house guest before he looked critically at his brother.

"How in the name of all that is holy did you hook up with one of the Prime's assassins?" Smokescreen asked.

"It was a fluke," Prowl replied, it was the truth.

"You aren't 'facing him, are you?" Smokescreen asked, mentally saying another prayer.

"No," Prowl replied. Something in his voice gave him away. No one else would have caught the subtle change of tone except his brother.

"But you have..." Smokescreen accused. "Sweet Primus how did you come to 'face one of them?"

"A fluke," Prowl repeated. "And that is all I will say in the matter."

"Fine," Smokescreen replied, he sat back on his peds, watching his patient. "You might as well use the wash racks. You aren't going anywhere looking like that."

"Thank you for your generous offer," Prowl replied. Sarcasm did not drip from his voice but Smokescreen heard it as clear as a bell. Prowl did, however take his brother up on his offer. There was no returning to his patrol with energon crusted on his servos. Jazz had likely used a cleaning rag to wipe himself clean before he actually left Smokescreen's building. Prowl did not luxuriate in under the shower of hot water and surfactants. In little more than a couple of breems, he was making his way back into Smokescreen's living room, just in time for Mirage to wake up.

"Hmm?" Mirage made a confused sound as his optics came online. Immediately, he tried to sit up, and clutched his damaged abdomen as he did.

"Easy does it," Smokescreen soothed, pressing Mirage back down on the couch by his shoulders. "I haven't finished patching you up just yet."

"Who are you?" Mirage asked, suspicion made his optics bright, and focused despite energon depletion.

"This is Smokescreen, Mirage," Prowl explained, walking slowly over to the couch. "He's my brother, and a doctor. He'll be taking care of you."

"I'm not a practising medic," Smokescreen explained to Mirage. His voice was smooth and gentle. "I don't keep a good collection of pain killing programs, or plating. I'm going to get some from a friend at first light. Do you think you can hang in there until then? Maybe have a cube of energon?"

"Okay," Mirage replied, his optics dimmed as his systems reduced their output and focus to conserve energy. He was hurting, badly but he was too confused by his change in predicament to complain.

"Good," Smokescreen said, smiling. "So you've fragged off both Megatron and the Prime? That's okay. You can stay with me until things calm down."

"Jazz is finally notice of your demise," Prowl added. "Megatron will likely get wind of it soon enough. Then you should be safe."

"Safe?" Mirage repeated the word. He couldn't believe it was possible. The thoughts of Figment filled filled his processor with guilt and anguish beyond physical pain and tears once again pooled in his optics.

Smokescreen immediately set about reassuring the young mech as Prowl filled an energon cube from Smokescreen's dispenser. Indeed this was the perfect place to leave Mirage. His brother would tend to both his physical and mental damage. Certainly better than Prowl could hope to do himself. He returned to the couch and handed Smokescreen the cube. Not wanting to interrupt the expert, Prowl quietly left his brother's apartment. There was the little matter of finishing his patrol, and then there was the paperwork in regards to the shoot out with the Decepticons.

Jazz commed Prowl just as he was submitting his paper work to his lieutenant. Blaming the fire fight on a spat between Decepticons seemed to cover all the bases. His lieutenant knew better, but as long as the Lord of Praxus maintained the "see no evil" directive, it was the best move the Enforcers could make.

"Ya want that cube?" Jazz asked.

"Where?" Prowl replied. His arm was stiff from being thrown by Soundwave, A cube was an excellent idea.

"Yer place," Jazz said. "I'll bring the cubes, and something that'll loosen up yer arm."

"I will meet you there," Prowl replied. He almost smiled. The last time Jazz had been at his apartment... Well, the experience had been pleasant enough but Prowl was by no means certain he wished to repeat it. Nonetheless, a cube with a friend was a pleasant prospect.

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

"Cliffjumper, just where are you going this time of night?" Blaster commed Cliffjumper. Wasn't that lucky, Blaster was on security detail tonight.

"Me and Mirage are going for a little drive," Cliffjumper replied. He immediately regretted mention Mirage.

"You and Mirage. He just came back in from patrol," Blaster said. "Oh no, you are not tearin' into each other again. I'm pagin' Prowl."

"Don't," Cliffjumper ordered. "We're just going to let off a little steam."

"Some how I don't believe that," Blaster replied, his voice oozed suspicion.

"I promise, I'm not going to lay a digit on that mech's helm," Cliffjumper insisted. "'Bot's honour."

"Better not," Blaster warned. "Alright, keep out of trouble."

Mirage was well ahead of Cliffjumper. The mini bot couldn't see his dust trail now, luckily it didn't take a tracker to follow race car tracks through the desert. In all their fights, Mirage had never actually thrown a punch in retaliation, let alone thrown the first punch. And Mirage had never cried... Cliffjumper growled to himself. Guilt, he didn't like feeling guilt. Whatever was going on in that slagging Towers mech's processor, Cliffjumper was going to figure it out. Then he could go back to beating on him with a clean conscience.

* * *

AN: I've been trying to ignore this plot for several days but my muse is being an ass so here it is. A little fic totally unrelated to my other verses. There is more to this in my head. But I'm not entirely sure I want to continue it. Reviews are helpful in deciding if there is a point in juggling another fic... Just saying ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**he Road Less Travelled By**

I haz a sick. You haz an update.

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.

Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.

Warning: war, M/M robots

Pairings: Jazz/ Prowl (friends with benefits), Mirage/ Cliffjumper (friendship/pre-slash/who-the-frick-knows)

**Klik: One minute, **1.2 kliks

**Breem: 8.3 minutes, ** 9-ish kliks

**Joor: One Hour, **not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours

**Mega-cycle: One Day,** 93 hours/ joors

**Orn: One Week**, 13 mega-cycles

**Quartex: One Month,** 4 orns

**Stellar Cycle: One Year,** 7.5 quartexes

**Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: **83 stellar cycles.

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

Cliffjumper followed Mirage's tracks until he had almost reached the limits of the comm to the Ark. He found Mirage sitting on a rock, leaning back on one of the many moderate sized rock formations that were scattered across the desert. Mirage tilted his helm ever so slightly. The angle made his optic glinted in the moonlight as he watched the minibot approach. It was disconcerting for Cliffjumper to be watched so close. It seemed he had forgotten, again, that Mirage was Special Ops, and as such a skilled fighter, at least when he danced in and out of visibility. That really was an evil, and very clever trick.

Mirage didn't greet Cliffjumper, really he didn't move at all. He just kept that one optic focused on Cliffjumper as the tense minibot walked over to the same formation where Mirage was resting, and sat himself down with a graceless clatter of metal. Now Mirage raised his optic ridges. The two mechs watched each other, Mirage with wariness, and Cliffjumper with thinly veiled curiosity.

"Alright," Cliffjumper said when the silence became too stifling. "What the frag was that? Not the fighting, we do that all the time. The crying. I've never seen you cry."

"Do you keep track of Cybertronian time?" Mirage asked. He crossed his arms over his knees and rested this chin on his arms, all the while watching Cliffjumper intently.

"Not really," Cliffjumper replied, he squirmed slightly, uncomfortable with Mirage's penetrative gaze. "As long as we're on Earth I just follow Earth time."

"I keep track of both," Mirage explained. He offlined and onlined his optics. "Today is... Not a good anniversary for me."

"The Towers falling?" Cliffjumper asked, under the assumption that the fall of those great buildings would matter to a mech of Mirage's frame type.

"No," Mirage replied. He shuddered, just once. "The anniversary of my brother's demise."

"You had a brother," Cliffjumper stated. "H'uh."

"Figment was younger than me," Mirage explained. "Only by a few stellar-cycles. He was deactivated not long after he had his adult upgrades."

"Primus," Cliffjumper said, shaking his head. He may not have liked Mirage but he empathized with his loss.

"It was my fault," Mirage added after a moment of thought. "Naivety or idiocy. Take your pick, but the fault was mine."

"Why would you believe that?" Cliffjumper asked. "I don't like you, at all. Not even a little. But I don't believe you'd do anything to get someone you loved deactivated."

"Megatron," Mirage explained. He frowned and eyed Cliffjumper with more than a little unease. "I'd appreciate it if you would put your weapons somewhere more out of reach. I wouldn't be surprised if your first reaction would be to shoot me."

"I'm not shooting you," Cliffjumper replied, scowling. "I promised Blaster I wouldn't."

"Comforting," Mirage replied. He gave a quick, humourless laugh. "What would you say if I told you that in the early days of the war, before Orion was Prime, I was a Decepticon."

"Are you kidding?" Cliffjumper gasped in disbelief. Wasn't that strange, Mirage had confessed to having been a 'Con and Cliffjumper actually found it hard to believe.

"I wish," Mirage replied softly. "If I could go back any do any single thing differently, that would be it."

"Why in the Pit were you a 'Con?" Cliffjumper asked. His voice a tight line between disbelief and anger. He had lived at the same time. There was no way he would ever have been a 'Con.

"Naivety, romanticism," Mirage shrugged as he considered the question. "I don't have a good answer, how could there be one? Our caretaker took us to Megatron's rallies in the workers' district of Crystal City. We heard him talk about ending the disparity between the castes, and righting the wrongs of the Primes. We, I listened."

"And you believed him?" Cliffjumper asked in under disbelief.

"I never said I was intelligent," Mirage replied. What he had been was sheltered. His creator had been rigid, and distant from his creations, leaving the tender carry to sparkling minders he had hired. But he had also been diligent, and he had tried to keep to dark side of their pampered world from them. As such Mirage had been largely blind to the power plays between families in the Towers.

"How'd you get out?" Cliffjumper asked. "I don't think Megatron would've let you walk away."

"Jazz and Prowl," Mirage explained. "Jazz spared my life, despite Sentinel Prime having called for my helm. Prowl found me shelter with Smokescreen. He shouldn't have been involved, Prowl I mean. He was an Enforcer for Praxus. He shouldn't have been involved with Jazz at all."

"Those two have been bonded since before I joined the 'Bots," Cliffjumper said.

"They weren't then,"Mirage explained. "They had barely been involved. Of course there were consequences from their affair."

"Eh?" Cliffjumper asked.

"Make yourself comfortable," Mirage ordered. He wasn't sure why he was driven to tell Cliffjumper this story, but he was.. "If I'm going to tell you the story, I don't want you complaining about your joints locking up."

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E _

"How are you settling into your command, Jazz," Optimus Prime asked his newly appointed Head of Special Operations. Behind him stood Sentinel Prime's only surviving personal guard. Ironhide had become Optimus' own bodyguard as a matter of convenience. Jazz had never worked closely with Ironhide, the old Prime never allowed his guards to offer their own opinions. But Jazz had seen irritation, or tension, or both in him as he had stood behind Sentinel while the old Prime signed the death warrant for some mech or femme who had chosen the wrong side in the rebellion. The guard had been chosen from the army. Jazz had long theorized that Ironhide probably thought assassination was a dishonest practice in war. If he was uncomfortable with the new Prime, it didn't show. Actually, he looked completely at ease with his post.

"Gettin' there," Jazz replied. His smiled had a great deal of cheek. "I've got a good team together."

"I'm glad to hear it," Optimus replied. He frowned deeply before he continued saying: "Jazz, I have a concern in regards to your last... Assignment from Sentinel Prime."

"Oh?" Jazz asked. He tensed completely and was grateful for the presence of his visor hiding his optics. They way they were glowing, and nearly bugging out of his helm would would be too much of a tell for someone so completely enamoured with secrecy as he.

"It distressing me that Sentinel Prime wasted your considerable talents on assassination," Optimus said, if he noticed Jazz's distress, he made not comment.

"I can't say I'm not glad to be done with all that," Jazz replied. He tried to grin. His career in the Autobots had flipped on its helm when Optimus Prime had taken one look at Sentinel Prime's protocols, assassinating Decepticon recruits who could prove dangerous in the long run, and anyone else he decreed and enemy of Cybertron. Many of Jazz's targets had been dangerous, cruel, and evil. But how many had been like Mirage? The thought haunted Jazz.

"The Decepticons have renewed their interest in the mech at the heart of your last assignment," Optimus explained. "They seem to have come to the conclusion that the "magician" called Spectre is functional."

"Slagging Pit," Jazz swore. He buried his helm in his servos for a nanosecond. "He is alive. And his designation is Mirage. Frag. He's staying friend. With the family of a friend."

"Is he the only assignment you didn't carry out?" Optimus asked. He didn't look back to Ironhide, Sentinel's, now his bodyguard. He wondered if Sentinel had had any idea that Jazz had spared this mech's life. Ironhide didn't make a sound. They were not comfortable with each other yet. Perhaps they would never be. As long as Ironhide fulfilled his duty and at least attempted to keep Optimus from harm, the new Prime would not be demoting him and sending him back to the army. After all, if he did that he would have to go through the selection process of bringing on a new bodyguard. The paperwork alone was enough to turn Optimus off that idea.

"Yeah," Jazz replied. "He's barely more than a youngling. Just made a mistake. A big, big mistake. And one he's payin' for."

"The intelligence I've received lends me to believe they do not intend to welcome this Mirage back into their ranks," Optimus said. He looked to Jazz with a serious, solemn expression.

"Frag," Jazz swore. "I gotta go warn'em. Optimus... I..."

"Go," Optimus replied. "You don't have to make a case. Warn your friends."

* * *

Jazz may have only been to Smokescreen's home once but Jazz had no trouble finding it again. His processor never forgot a location, or a road. His nerves were on edge. Prowl's comm was offline. It had been offline for joors, since Jazz had first hopped on the first shuttle from Iacon to Praxus. Perhaps Prowl had just changed his comm. It had been over a stellar-cycle since Jazz had last been in Praxus. They hadn't really even said goodbye; Jazz had practically run away with his metaphorical tail between his legs. A roll in the berth was one thing. That last 'face had been unlike any of their previous encounters. Sparks had been involved. Sparks that had bared themselves without either Jazz or Prowl activating the protocols. The merge had been intense; Jazz had no past experience to compare it to. Naturally, it had terrified him, and he had made his way back to Iacon the moment he had woken from recharge. Prowl might have felt slighted, or offended, or taken advantage of. He might have decided it suited him to sever contact with Jazz. And maybe Jazz would have understood that if he wasn't terrified for Prowl's life. Instead, Jazz was irritated that he couldn't reach Prowl _now_.

There was a code to enter the foyer of the skyscraper where Smokescreen lived. His apartment, though not at all large, was in a much grander building, in a much grander neighbourhood than his younger half brother. Jazz had memorized the code when Prowl had punched it in. It was a horrible habit, peering over other mechs shoulder struts to memorize their codes, but the habit had proven useful time and time again. The wait in the lift was agonizing and Jazz felt himself climbing out of his arm. Slagging Prowl, turn on your slagging comm!

Jazz ran down the hall the second the lift's doors slid open. He didn't knock or otherwise signal his presece when he found Smokescreen's door, rather he drew his gun and tested the door. It was unlocked. With no pause or hesitation, Jazz pressed the button and the doors slid open with a soft hiss. The comfortable living room the door opened onto was in chaos.

"Slag!" Jazz swore and he scanned the room, his gun raised, looking for the perpetrator of the damage. The room was empty. Jazz ran passed the overturned and shredded furniture and searched the other rooms for signs of Smokescreen, and Mirage. Life-energon splattered one wall, drag marks on the floor showed that a large Cybertronian was dragged from the scene. Larger than either a Praxian or a Towers' frame. The room had been thoroughly searched. The stench of smoke mixed with the scent of spilled energon, and a grey film coated the wall and the ruined furniture. It vaguely reminded Jazz of the scene of a fire. Scorch marks and torn metal told Jazz that someone had shot at every corner in the suite. 'Cons then, wise to Mirage's tricks.

The damage was fresh, the energon was still drying. If Smokescreen or Mirage had been captured, Prowl may not even know. Or he could have been here when the attack went down. Dread poured through Jazz and he ran from Smokescreen's apartment. He could drive to Prowl's humbler abode on autopilot. Which was just as well, Jazz was in a state of panic. He could, and he would quiet the panic. Jazz was an experienced operator. But this was his friend, the mech closest to him in the entire world and Jazz allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of panic. Prowl was the closest mech to him in the world and Jazz hadn't bothered to contact him in over a stellar-cycle... That was it then, Jazz was clearly a coward when it came to relationships.

He raced through the entry way to the nondescript apartment building where Prowl lived. There was no code to this door. The lock required a key card. Jazz was not patient enough to pick the lock, he shot it instead. His weapon was quite, no one could hear the blast. The lift was too slow, far too slow; Jazz ran up the four flights of stairs instead. Fear seized his spark as he ran down the short hallway to Prowl's door. Like Smokescreen's, it was unlocked. Gun at the ready, Jazz took a quick breath through his intakes and opened the door.

"Prowl?" Jazz called as the door slid open. As much as he wanted to dive into the apartment, caution forced him to keep to the side in case of enemy fire.

"Jazz?" Prowl's familiar, ever so even voice answered him. There was a hint of surprise, but no fear. Jazz jogged into the room. He almost jogged right back out out of reflex. All three mechs were sequestered in Prowl's small living room. Prowl and Mirage were both seated on his simple couch, Smokescreen was standing just a few steps away. There was on other presence in the room. A small, loud little sparkling laying against Prowl's shoulder.

"Shh," Prowl soothed the newspark, gently running two digit between its, his doorwings. It only took a klik for the crying the quiet. Prowl handed the tiny thing over the Mirage.

"Both of you," he direct Mirage and Smokescreen. "Give us a moment."

Jazz openly stared at Mirage's retreating back. Smokescreen fixed him a cool glare before the door to Prowl's berthroom slid shut behind him, not that Jazz noticed. He turned his focus to Prowl, staring at the seated Praxian with wide-opticed disbelief. Prowl looked back up at him. His crossed his arms over his chassis and frowned just slightly.

"Ah, can ya explain, ah, how this to me?" Jazz asked as he gestured towards the closed door. He walked hesitantly over to the couch, to Prowl. He didn't sit.

"I don't believe we were that over-energized," Prowl replied. Jazz winced and the perfectly neutral tone. Prowl only used it with him when he was irritated or withdrawn.

"So I sparked ya?" Jazz asked. He shook his helm and once again stared down at Prowl.

"Yes," Prowl replied. He shifted slightly, his doorwings twitching.

"Well frag," Jazz swore. Prowl tensed up completely in front of him, his doorwings froze in place. Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. "Sorry, Prowl...er... But frag. I wasn't expecting this."

"Nor was I," Prowl replied tersely. "His spark separated from mine almost two quartexes ago."

"Long term," Jazz murmured. Carriers could carry a sparklet from anywhere between six quartexes to a full stellar-cycle. Jazz knew when the sparkling had been conceived. Prowl had carried for the longest possible term. Prowl didn't reply. Jazz chewed his lower lip plate, and with a soft vent, sat down beside Prowl.

"So what'dya call him?" Jazz asked. There had never been this much tension between them, not even when they had first met.

"Bluestreak," Prowl said. The tension was visibly seeping from his frame, at least a little. His doorwings relaxed.

"A good designation," Jazz said. Though would it have matter if he had thought otherwise. He found himself wanting to reach out and touch Prowl, to put his servo over Prowl's spark and marvel at the silver-blue energy that had just recently supported a new life. Jazz resisted the temptation.

"Why are you here?" Prowl asked. "It has been well over a stellar-cycle."

"The 'Cons!" Jazz exclaimed, and hit his helm with his servo. How easily he had become sidetracked. "I don't need to tell ya that they're lookin' for Mirage."

"Smokescreen was home when they came," Prowl explained. "Mirage was here. Luckily Smokescreen has a mod to match his name and was able to escape unharmed."

"Someone was wounded," Jazz stated. A smoke mod explained the smell in the apartment, and the film.

"Smokescreen carries a gun," Prowl replied. "And he is a good marksman."

"Lucky," Jazz vented. He cocked his helm to the side, and watched Prowl again. He asked:"What're you plannin' on doin'?"

"We were discussing that before you came," Prowl replied. "Smokescreen and I do not advertise our relation. Our sire rarely mentions him to anyone in his acquaintance. Though he has not yet officially disowned Smokescreen. The Decepticons will not immediately know to look here."

"But they will, and probably soon," Jazz added. He rubbed his servo against the back of his neck. "Your sire's the Chief Enforcer. Can you stay with him?"

"No," Prowl replied. "Though he would, begrudgingly, house Smokescreen and myself... And Bluestreak... He would never shelter Mirage. Not even for a joor. I doubt he would allow Mirage into his home."

"If I took Mirage back with me to Iacon, would you stay with your sire?" Jazz asked, quickly adding: "I promise the new Prime won't touch'em. He's a different sort of Prime."

"I would stay with my sire," Prowl replied, his doorwings went rigid as he spoke. "Until I resume my contract next quartex, at least. Smokescreen will not suffer being under our sire's roof for more than a few hours. They react to each other like acids and alkali."

"Hold up," Jazz said. He raised his servo to stop Prowl from speaking and dimmed his optics to a glare. "Why're you goin' back to the Enforcers already? You should have a full stellar-cycle with the sparklin'."

"I required taking early leave from my duties when I was carrying," Prowl explained, he shifted and tensed under Jazz's intense focus. "To secure my position I must return to my patrol in a few orns."

"For frag's sake," Jazz swore, flashed his optics at their brightest setting, and shook his helm. "Doesn't seem like a good reason to keep you from your sparklin'."

"It is what it is," Prowl replied. He stretched his doorwings and raised them up and down on his back. "I require my post..."

"And your sire won't help?" Jazz asked, pointedly. "He's his grand-sparkling. He should want what's best for him."

"My sire does not choose to acknowledge Bluestreak as anything more than a grave mistake on my part," Prowl explained. There was no heat in his voice. The shock of his sire's volatile reaction to his carrying had warn off.

"That slagtard," Jazz growled. He seethed with anger. "How could he think that? How?"

"Praxus is a state ruled by tradition and culture," Prowl explained. "I am already a bastard myself. That makes Bluestreak the bastard of a bastard. Worse still in my sire's optics, I did not have to decency to get myself sparked by someone who could raise my status."

"Primus slag it," Jazz swore. He could raise Prowl's status now, now that he was high in the Prime's command. Thought Jazz was not going to mention it. His spark ached in its casing with a combination of guilt and impotent anger. "It isn't right. You shouldn't be punished for havin' a sparklin'."

_For having my sparkling._

"It is what it is," Prowl reiterated.

"Don't say that," Jazz hissed. He caught Prowl's servos with his own and held them tight. "Don't accept it. You shouldn't accept them bein' slagtards to you."

"I choose my battles carefully, Jazz," Prowl replied. He didn't attempt to free himself from Jazz. "This is not one I can hope to win."

"No one's ready to speak for you?" Jazz asked. "None of the other Enforcers? Doesn't someone care that a carrier should have the first stellar-cycle with his/her creation?"

"My fellow Enforcers believe that Bluestreak's sire is one of our commanding officers," Prowl replied. "When last I heard, the majority believe it to be the lieutenant I have worked closest with. He has a mate. This rumour has been damaging for him. As such, I believe that is where the pressure is coming from that he show me no special treatment."

"They don't believe you when you say he's not the sire?" Jazz asked. He couldn't imagine Prowl said anything about who the sire was. He was not supposed to have any involvement with one of the Prime's agents after all.

"They do not believe that I would allow myself to be sparked unless it was to advance my position," Prowl replied, his voice noticeably softer.

"Do they think you're a slut?" Jazz asked. He regretted the question the nanosecond it left his vocalizer.

"Yes," Prowl replied, he pulled his servos free from Jazz and rested them on his knees. "A cold-sparked slut. This is why they believe the sire must be an officer. A cold-sparked slut would notspark for just anyone. Like my carrier before me..."

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

"How could anyone believe Prowl was a slut?" Cliffjumper asked, interrupting Mirage. "He the most straight laced mech ever created."

"Do you always interrupt when someone is telling you a story?" Mirage asked, with a hint of annoyance.

"When I have a question," Cliffjumper replied, and then asked. "Well, were the Enforcers all stupid?"

"The Enforcers did not understand Prowl," Mirage explained. "Just like many of the Autobots still don't. How often do mechs call Prowl cold or sparkless when he isn't around to hear?"

"So they're stupid too," Cliffjumper replied. Prowl may have been aloof but if you ever saw him with Jazz or Bluestreak, you could never call him sparkless.

"We agree on that then," Mirage said. "The difference between the Autobots and the Enforcers however was rank. Prowl's position as SIC demands respect from Autobots who might otherwise take issue with Prowl. Amongst the Enforcers Prowl had no rank to protect him."

"I'm glad he got leave early," Cliffjumper said. "He shouldn't have had to deal with those slaggers."

"They are why he went on leave early," Mirage replied. "Though Smokescreen was actually responsible for that decision."

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E _

"Why'd you have to go on leave early?" Jazz asked as he tried to wrap his processor around the sheer stupidity that effected the whole of Prowl's Enforcer station. "Don't stations have desk work for carriers?"

"I was on reduced duties for a short time," Prowl said. "After I crashed..."

"Crashed?" Jazz interrupted. "You crashed? Why'd you crashed? Are you okay?"

"I have a glitch, Jazz," Prowl vented. "When I receive a shock, on some occasions I crash. It's a rare thing now. I crashed regularly as a youngling."

"Didn't know you had a glitch," Jazz said. He frowned. "What was the surprise?"

"That I was carrying," Prowl replied. Jazz offlined and onlined his optics. Stupid question.

"Right, d'uh," Jazz said. "Did your doc just want you to take it easy? Why'd you go on leave?"

"My doctor wanted to verify that the crash was unrelated to my carrying," Prowl explained. "While carrying without regular merges from the sire is not ideal, I was fine."

"Fine," Jazz repeated the word. "I really hate that word. It never means what it says."

"Do not be obnoxious," Prowl ordered. "Smokescreen enjoys that task too much as it is."

"If you were fine you would've stayed on light duties," Jazz argued. "Since you went on leave, that was not the slagging case."

"The other Enforcers were vicious," Smokescreen said, seeing fit to enter the conversation he had been eavesdropping on. "Slander, ridicule, never to his faceplates, of course. Command didn't like their designations being dragged into the mess so they resisted accommodating Prowl when he was too drained to get out of his berth and come into the station."

"Smokescreen," Prowl attempted to call off his brother. Jazz met the older Praxians cold glare with a frown.

"Sires are supposed to help with the carrying," Smokescreen said, optics focused on Jazz. "Merging regularly means their energy feeds the sparklet too. Since you didn't make yourself accessible, Prowl's spark had to carry that burden alone. Maybe it would have been better if he had recharged well, but that sort of work stress doesn't make for good recharge cycles. Stress also affects the appetite. Prowl's never had a great one. He refuels to live, he doesn't live to refuel. He had to force himself to refuel with Bluestreak. His fuel tank purged regularly."

"Smokescreen," Prowl tried to call off his brother again, his voice louder.

"Never mind our sire was pressuring him to terminated the sparklet," Smokescreen adding, continuing to ignoreProwl. "He's the slagging Chief Enforcer, and he doesn't keep his opinions to himself. Senior officers starting hinting that perhaps carrying this sparklet wasn't good for Prowl. Another time perhaps? Slaggers, every last one of them. I submitted a medical order pulling Prowl from any duty. If Prowl hadn't been so drained, and so stressed, and so sick he would have offered more than a token protest."

"Prowl," Jazz said, sorrowfully, he covered one of his sometime-lover's servo with his own.

"You had no way of knowing the ramifications of that night," Prowl interrupted, attempting to resolve Jazz of his growing guilt.

"If he hadn't runaway the morning after, maybe he would have," Smokescreen snapped. Clearly, he wanted Jazz to feel guilty. It was working. "If he left his home comm line with you. If he treated you as more than an anonymous one night stand..."

"Enough Smokescreen!" Prowl ordered, sharply. "This is my quarrel, not yours."

"If you would fight it for yourself I wouldn't have to," Smokescreen replied, not remotely rebuked.

"Are you all done?" Mirage asked, stepping out of the berthroom, and nudging Smokescreen aside. Bluestreak was fidgeting in his arms."The Decepticons nearly killed Smokescreen just over two joor ago. If they're smart, they'll figure out to search here next. So we can't really be here having this argument when they come."

"A voice of reason at last," Prowl muttered. "You are right, of course, Mirage."

"Why don'tcha all come back with me to Iacon?" Jazz offered. This was a far more welcome conversation. He would have to talk with Prowl, and only Prowl again soon. But any reprieve was welcome.

"Mirage? Smokescreen?" Prowl asked.

"I find a position, or open a clinic anywhere," Smokescreen said. "I'll go."

"I'll go," Mirage echoed. He looked so serious. His expression reminded Jazz of that of a condemned prisoner offering himself up for execution.

"I need to submit a letter of resignation," Prowl said. "It will only take me a few moments."

"While you're at it I'll transfer some of my more... delicate patients to another one of the other doctors at my practice," Smokescreen said. Without another word, he stepped into Prowl's washracks. The only private room, save for Prowl's berthroom, in the apartment.

Prowl walked over to Mirage and took back Bluestreak. The sparkling trilled softly and nuzzled into his carrier's chassis. Jazz felt his spark constrict at the sight. He was caught off guard when Prowl walked the few steps over to him and wordlessly placed Bluestreak in Jazz's arms. Holding his sparkling for the first time, Jazz felt his joints lock up with shock and fear; he gaped at Prowl. The mech in question levelled a stern look at him before he looked to Mirage.

"Please see to it that he doesn't drop my sparkling," Prowl said. With that, he entered his berthroom, which held his communication console, and let the door shut behind him. Jazz looked over at Mirage, his optics bright and wide as if to say "help me!"

"Cradle him against your chassis," Mirage instructed, laughter in his voice. "He likes to be spark to spark, or against your shoulder."

"I don't know what I'm doin'," Jazz confessed. "I'm lockin' up."

"For Primus' sake, sit down then," Mirage chastised lightly. "Have you never touched a sparkling before?"

"Slag no," Jazz replied. He sat on Prowl's couch. His whole frame was tense. What if he _broke_ him?! "The minders at the youngling centre where I grew up didn't trust me with the bitlets. Thought I'd paint'em pink with purple pok-a-dots."

Jazz was mystified as Bluestreak let out a soft, seemingly happy trill before he settled into recharged pressed right up against Jazz spark casing. Never in his entire life had Jazz considered having sparklings. He had lost his own creators before his youngling upgrades and had spent his formative years in younglings centres. Some younglings flourished amongst the other younglings in these centres; Jazz had no bee on of them. The rules of good contact, etc had felt stifling and Jazz had rebelled at every possible opportunity. His reputation as a runaway and troublemaker had landed him in increasingly restrictive centres until Jazz made good his escape. Polihex had been home and was still home to a number of street gangs. It had not been difficult for Jazz to find a gang that could make use of the destructive skills he had developed over the course of his younglinghood.

He had no good example of how a creator should be to his/her creation. Jazz had no real idea what a sire should be to the carrier. Smokescreen had certainly made it clear that Jazz had failed completely when it came to those responsibilities. But he hadn't asked to be a sire. It was not a responsibility he had ever wanted, and it was not a responsibility he found himself warming to. What kind of influence could he be to Bluestreak? The sensation of Bluestreak's tiny spark pulsing next to his both froze and melted Jazz's spark. Jazz felt the little mechlings tiny digits curl to grasp narrow seams in his armour, and tiny, tiny doorwings fluttered aimlessly on Bluestreaks back.

_Code of his code..._

"Your spark pulse on similar frequencies," Mirage explained after a few kliks. "Instinctively, his spark knows you're his sire."

"I'm gonna screw up," Jazz lamented more to himself than to Mirage.

_Code of his code._

"Probably," Mirage replied, shrugging his shoulder struds. "All creators do at some point or another."

* * *

AN: So this has continued. It stubbornly wants to be written. Unbetaed, blah blah blah. Please forgive the stupid mistakes I'm sure are littered here or there. I've a combination of both a sinus cold and the norovirus which does not result in me being patient about editing.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Road Less Travelled By**

Chapter 3

Primes are kinky bastards

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.

Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.

Warning: war, M/M robots

Pairings: Jazz/ Prowl (friends with benefits), Mirage/ Cliffjumper (friendship/pre-slash/who-the-frick-knows)

**Klik: One minute, **1.2 kliks

**Breem: 8.3 minutes, ** 9-ish kliks

**Joor: One Hour, **not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours

**Mega-cycle: One Day,** 93 hours/ joors

**Orn: One Week**, 13 mega-cycles

**Quartex: One Month,** 4 orns

**Stellar Cycle: One Year,** 7.5 quartexes

**Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: **83 stellar cycles.

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E _

It simply wasn't possible for Optimus to relax around Ironhide. In truth since he had been rebuilt, and had become Optimus Prime, relaxation had been difficult to achieve. But with Ironhide present, as he so often was, Optimus didn't even bother to try. He had read the contract for service to the Prime that had been written for Sentinel Prime's fleet of guards. Specifically, Optimus had seen Ironhide's signature, stamping his acceptance of the contract, and all the things it entailed. If he had not been Prime, Optimus wasn't certain he would be able to look at Ironhide in the optics. Though his outrage would probably have been magnified if he wasn't the Prime.

"Your makin' a big to do outta nothin'," Ironhide groused. Optimus frowned and looked over his shoulder at the sturdy red gunner. The comment caught him off guard, partially because Ironhide could already read him well enough to know what was bothering him, and partially because Ironhide had actually voiced his opinion on the matter without Optimus actually asking for it.

"I don't believe I am," Optimus replied, turning in his chair to face Ironhide. He was careful not to stand, to not tower over the smaller mech. Intimidation was the way of the old regime.

"I read the contract before I signed it," the sturdily framed guard said. He snorted and shook his helm. "If it wasn't somethin' I could do, I wouldn't have signed it."

"Servicing the Prime in _all _ways, Ironhide?"The Prime asked. His voice, he had intended to keep it perfectly level, perfectly nonchalant, but he heard the heightened pitch as the words were let loose by his vocalizer.

"There's a reason Primes always pick their guards from the army," Ironhide countered, meeting the Prime's optics. If Optimus expected to see any hint of shame, he saw none. Ironhide's optics were a sharp sky blue, focused, firm, and unapologetic. He was unaffected by the rigorous code of ethics that ruled Optimus. "Specifically from outposts in the middle slaggin' nowhere. Only unbonded soldiers get assigned to those posts. Unbonded soldiers are free to 'help' each other out if they get overcharged, or just need to relax after battle, waitin' for battle, or whatever. We ain't tied up in the highfaluting morals that seem to be buggin' you."

"Primes have no business ordering mechs into their berths," Optimus countered. "Choosing them from facets where they expect to find cooperation is all the worse. There is no record of a Prime choosing femmes for this role."

"Femmes wouldn't never go along with it," snorted the red gunner, as though it was a matter-of-fact. "They've got standards."

A femme would tear a mech, including the Prime, to pieces for producing that kind of contract and expecting her to sign. If a femme saw such a contract offered to a mech she favoured, she would rip the mech holding the contract to shreds for insulting her friend.

"And you don't have standards?" Optimus asked. He immediately regretted the question. It was not his intention to shame Ironhide. If anything he was a victim of the old Prime. "Ironhide, I apologize."

"I told you, Prime, I wouldn't signed if I wasn't willin'," Ironhide snapped, irritation evident as his optics flashed."And maybe I don't have any standards. Sentinel was an aft most of the time. But he was the spawn of Unicron if his charge got up. Didn't bug me in the least to help him out of it."

"It shouldn't have been in your contract," reiterated the new Prime. His own charge was high. It occurred to him that this was likely why he had difficulty relaxing. And it was the knowledge that Ironhide had serviced Sentinel when he had been in a similar state that made it absolutely impossible to for Optimus to relax with Ironhide present. Optimus' processor might have been wound up with the ethics and immorality of the contract, but his frame was beginning to think it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Probably not," Ironhide agreed. "The council wrote up the first one and it hasn't changed in vorns. Guess they didn't want the Prime trollin' for a frag."

Now there was a lovely thought. Thank you Ironhide. That wording was entirely intentional, wasn't it? Optimus could just picture lecherous Primes from ages past stalking the streets looking for mechs suitable for servicing their lust. Wonderful. Just wonderful. There was no way Optimus was willing to hand out this contract to anyone else. No new soldier would be asked to sign themselves away to the lust of the Prime. Ironhide would remain at his post, partly because Optimus was required to have at least one guard by the senate, and partly because sending him back to the army would be in no uncertain terms a demotion, something Ironhide didn't deserve. Sentinel Prime had had six guards, more than any Prime before him... Primus he had had a fragging stable. As far as his own overcharge was concerned, Optimus would tend to that issue himself. His frame would have to reconcile itself with that fact.

"I never asked what damage you took in the skirmish with Megatron," the large, blue and red truck frame said, changing the subject with no attempt at subtlety. This subject should be safe enough. If nothing else it would educate Optimus on what kind of damage his guard could take. What kind of fighter he was. It would also answer the question that had been nagging him. How had he survived the assassination of the Prime?

"Took a shot that just missed my spark," his guard explained. His frown deepened. "Cracked the chamber but didn't extinguish me or nothin'."

"You took the shot for Sentinel Prime," Optimus said, reading between the lines. Megatron had likely assumed that his spark would extinguish. Likely it should have. The most vital fuel lines fed the spark chamber. Any injury that could crack the chamber would have caused a serious bleed. Ironhide had strong spark to match his frame, apparently. Somehow this didn't surprise Optimus.

"'Course," Ironhide said, he crossed his arms and looked down at Optimus with open defiance on his faceplates. "I'll do the same for you when the time comes. My job."

"If I ordered you not to?" Optimus asked, raising an optic ridge.

"I'd ignore it," Ironhide replied, smiling smugly. "It's in the contract."

"Of course it is," Optimus grumbled in a matter most unbecoming of the Prime. He vented a great exhale of air. It was becoming clear to him that Ironhide was just as much a force to be reckoned with as the Matrix itself.

* * *

Prowl stared at his personal communication console, and debated what to write in his letter of resignation. His tactical systems weighed professionalism and emotion. To even consider telling his commanding officer just what he felt about them was out of character. It held no real weight in the matter. He was not terminating his contract because they had made his life the Pit for nearly two stellar cycles. The fact that mechs and femmes that should have been loyal colleagues had made him feel shame for Bluestreak's existence was not either. But Prowl's spark had morphed that shame readily into anger, and the anger had not yet faded.

What he did in his private life was his own business. There was no reason it should ever have affected his career. But of course it had. It had been Prowl's skills as an investigator that had raised the clearance rate for his station to such a degree that his lieutenant had received commendations. But had his lieutenant done anything to quiet to ugly rumours that had suffocated Prowl from the day he announced his sparking? No. Well yes, to be fair, he had attempted to silence them, once the rumours had started naming him as the sire.

Lieutenant Highground had naturally moved to quell the rumours then, if for no other reason than his own reputation. Other officers had been named as potential sires by the gossip mongers in the Enforcer ranks, but while Prowl had still been on active duty, it had been Highground's name most often raised. That did make sense, at least as far as any of the suggestions were concerned. Prowl had worked with Highground often, in between his own duty shifts, to help with one investigation or another. The lieutenant had seen the strength of Prowl's tactical systems even if they had been deemed defective in Prowl's personal file. That was why Prowl had never been credited with his work on these high profile cases. Doubt would have been placed on the quality of the work.

So what did he write?

_To Whom it May Concern: I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am hereby tendering my resignation so that I may move to Iacon with the sire of my sparkling._

No. It was true, but then it wasn't. Prowl was not moving to Iacon to be with Jazz. He was not with Jazz, not really. Who was to say if Jazz would even wish to take part in Bluestreak's upbringing?

_To Whom it May Concern: I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am hereby tendering my resignation so that I may transfer my residency to Iacon in order to have a fresh start with my sparkling._

Once again, it wasn't true. What fresh start? If Prowl wished to gain a post with any Enforcer station in Iacon, he would need to file the proper paperwork, requesting a transfer. It would take quartexes for the request to be even read, let alone processed. When Prowl submitted his resignation today, it would no doubt put a black stamp on his file. No station anywhere on Cybertron would offer him a contract.

_To Whom it May Concern... No... _

There was only one proper way to do this.

_Attention Lieutenant First Class Highground,_

_I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am tendering my resignation, effective immediately. It will become known to you shortly, through various channels, that the residence of my half brother, Smokescreen, was ransacked. Many theories will be offered as to what took place. Accusations will be made that Smokescreen gambled with the wrong mechs, or some such business. This is not the case. At my request, Smokescreen has been caring for/ hiding a young mech. This mech had/has bounties on his spark from both the Decepticons rebels, and the postumous Sentinel Prime. I will not explain why I saw fit to interfere in this matter between the Prime and the Decepticons. All I will say is that I believe the decision to be the correct one. Considering the faith you have past placed in my battle computer and logic processor, I hope you will trust my decision in this matter. In any case, the Decepticons have now discovered that the mech is still functioning. They have traced him to Smokescreen. Soon they will trace Smokescreen's connection to me, etc. For the safety of my brother, the mech in question, and my sparkling, designation Bluestreak, I am moving my family to Iacon. The sire of my sparkling has offered us shelter, and we have graciously accepted. _

_Please forward my resignation through the proper channels._

_Prowl._

It was the best he could hope to offer. An explanation, such as there was one. Prowl considered naming Jazz as the sire. He considered revealing his tenuous connection to the Autobots. For a moment he considered defending _himself. _His sparkling had been kindled during an affair with an agent of the Prime. In no small part, Prowl had kept silent about Jazz for the sake of his career. Still, without his career being of any concern anymore, Prowl did not name Jazz, neither as an Autobot, an agent of the Prime, or by name at all. When it came down to it, Prowl's spark protested the idea that Prowl needed to explain himself at all. So he did not. With a great deal of anxiety and foreboding in his spark, and an odd amount of relief, Prowl submitted his resignation.

* * *

Prowl stepped from his berthroom, his doorwings high on his back and flared, a signal of anxiety and of determination. Jazz looked up from Bluestreak, who he was cradling, perhaps awkwardly, against his chassis, and watched Prowl. His helm was angled to the side and his visor glinted blue in the rooms ambient light. It was a measuring look; Prowl did not need to see Jazz's optics to know his body language was being studied, and deciphered for meaning. An unfortunate end result of both Jazz's extensive training and his somewhat disconcerting fascination with Prowl's doorwings was that he could read Prowl like no one else. Except, maybe Smokescreen, but that was debatable.

"Are you really okay with this?" Jazz asked as Prowl walked over to him. Prowl tried to keep his stride casual. He was certain he came across as stiff.

"I am," he replied. He had every possible anxiety over the situation and his resignation but there was an eerie peace in his spark. Bluestreak's future had been untenable here in Praxus. A twice damned bastard had no hope of entry into the best schools, the best positions in whatever career he chose. It would not matter if Bluestreak was brilliant, his illegitimacy would damn him. Praxian culture was unforgiving. Prowl had only been nominally accepted in private schools he had attended because his sire was someone of rank, and he had still been mocked with classmates call him the creation of an opportunistic slut.

The opportunistic part had been true. Though it had been his sire who had beckoned Prowl's carrier into his berth, it had been Prowl's creator who had intentionally been spark. It had been an excellent opportunity to climb the Enforcer ranks, payment for services rendered. Praxian society looked down on the carriers who sparked outside of bonding more than they did the sires. If they would just mind their sparks. If they would think before they let someone into their berths. Even those of rank carried illegitimate sparklings were held with some derision. Carriers without rank were ostracized, belittled and so were their offspring. Those illegitimate creations who showed great promise would have to hope for sponsors to get entry into anything better than the worst public university. It almost never happened. Being the bastard of a bastard, with a powerful grand-sire who would never acknowledge him, Bluestreak would not even have this hope. Iacon could easily be no better in regards to illegitimacy but Prowl would not have to discuss Bluestreak's parentage with anyone. If Prowl's lack of references and connections in Iacon damned him to some menial job with no use of his tactical systems, so be it.

Jazz watched Prowl silently for a long klik before he stood and handed Bluestreak back to his carrier. Prowl wondered what was going through Jazz's processor. The mech was never this quiet. Bluestreak made a happy trill as he settled into his favourite perch with his small helm resting in the crook of Prowl's neck. It felt so perfectly right, holding Bluestreak like this. When his sparkling curled against him, all of the anxiety of the last stellar-cycle washed away, though only temporarily. Nothing could ever make Prowl regret carrying Bluestreak.

"I'll take care of you," Jazz said, finally. "Both of you."

"That is not necessary," Prowl replied, though his spark leapt upon hearing the promise. Pride however, was one of Prowl's vices. "I will find work..."

"After you settle," Jazz interrupted. He wrapped a single arm around Prowl's back and lightly stroked his neckplates. Prowl felt the stiffness he had not known was present ease away. "Settle first, worry about work later. You deserve a chance to just breathe."

"We can go," Smokescreen said as he stepped from the washracks. His tone was tight and his optics were a cold, icy blue. The tension Jazz had bled from Prowl's frame returned at once. He knew Smokescreen did not approve of Jazz, did not like Jazz. And he knew that Smokescreen was not going to like the sight of any physical contact between himself and Jazz. Smokescreen knew what Prowl knew, because Prowl had been foolish enough to tell him.

Prowl's spark ached. It was a dull pain, testimony to the fact that his spark had found another perfectly in tune with it and had been so far deprived the chance to bond with it.

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

"Smokescreen really hated Jazz," Cliffjumper said. "They get along fine now."

"Smokescreen could be an over protective brother," Mirage replied. "More so once Prowl revealed that he was carrying."

"He really didn't want them to bond?" Cliffjumper asked, with a hint of scepticism. It was unheard of for two fated sparks to be denied bonding. That kind of bond was worked into every sparkling's tale. A gift from Primus.

"He believed that Jazz was doomed to hurt Prowl," the noble explained. "A double edged sword. On one servo, if Prowl did not bond with Jazz, his spark would never feel whole again. And on the other servo, if they did bond and Jazz got himself deactivated serving the Prime, well that would likely deactivate Prowl."

"Hard to believe Smokescreen joined the Autobots," said the crimson minibot. "Doesn't sound like he liked them much."

"Smokescreen detested the old regime," Mirage revealed. "He saw through Megatron, unlike me, but he hated Sentinel Prime, and the ruling elite, for many reasons. Optimus was still very new, and the changes he was making and attempting to make had not yet become known. Besides that, Praxus rarely let good press for the Autobots enter their airways. The city-state was fanatical about remaining neutral."

"And it always did," the smaller mech added sombrely. Praxus had remained neutral even as it was crumbled into scrap and ash.

"Prowl was right about one thing," Mirage said. "Praxus was steeped in tradition. So much so it was incapable of change."

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E _

Smokescreen's digits and his optics never left his portable communication console. Prowl assumed that he was focused on transferring the care of his less urgent patients. He also assumed Smokescreen was testy over the display of affection he had seen between Jazz and himself. What was Prowl to do if he had to battle his brother to accept the sire of his sparkling? Worse still, what if Smokescreen's hostility chased Jazz off? If Jazz was already hesitant about raising Bluestreak, it was easily possible that he would wash his servos of the situation if Smokescreen gave him too much trouble.

Even though his spark knew that Jazz was the only mate for him, and he for Jazz, in his processor, Prowl recognized that they were still largely strangers. Their friendship had developed despite their deeply separate lives. Their physical relationship had begun as an outlet for pent up charge after they had both narrowly survived an encounter with one of Jazz's targets. Prowl had sustained minor, cosmetic damage to his left doorwing. The scratch had attracted Jazz's attention to that specific appendage after they had both consumed just a little too much high grade. With his own inhibitions lowered, Prowl had consented to Jazz exploring first that doorwing, then the other, then his whole frame. In turn he had explored Jazz's sensory horns, his servos, which he had quickly discovered were hyper sensitive, and one of the reasons Jazz was so very inclined towards touch. They had interfaced in a tangle of limbs, Prowl's tactical systems temporarily falling offline as pleasure had become the centre of his being.

Prowl had found himself marvelling the morning after at the power of that pleasure. No previous lover had ever managed to 'face his tactical systems offline. That was no small part of the reason Prowl had welcomed Jazz back into his berth when he danced back into Praxus after a few quartexes of silence, and then again, and again. And for what it was worth, Jazz had always come back, and he had always been happy to get his servos on Prowl's doorwings. Still, mutual lust was not the ideal cornerstone of a relationship, sparks synced or not.

"I've found an apartment for Mirage and I," Smokescreen announced shortly before the transport was set to land.

"Is that what you have been doing?" Prowl asked, the jolt of surprise that ran through him only expressed by a slight lilt to his voice.

"I've also lined up a few interviews for various hospitals," the brightly painted Praxian replied.

"You managed to arrange references?" The black and white brother asked.

"Naturally," Smokescreen said with the smile of a trickster. "I'm contrary and a defy authority. But I'm brilliant at what I do. That and I collect black mail."

"Of course," Prowl sighed, and shook his head lightly. "You could open a clinic again."

"I might," his brother agreed. "It's easier to built a patient list if you spend a little time working out of a hospital."

"Any objections, Mirage?" Prowl asked. It was the first time any of the older mechs had properly acknowledge his presence in a few joor. Even when he did not use his cloak, Mirage had a talent for disappearing.

"No," Mirage replied. He smiled, and relaxed visibly. "I'll try and keep him out of trouble."

"That is no small goal," Prowl said. It did not surprise him that Mirage would be happy not to live under the same roof as Jazz, even for a short time. Jazz would likely intimidate him for some time to come; Jazz had hunted him over much of Cybertron. They would have to get to know each other before that natural fear was likely to wane.

"I am going to want you to watch Bluestreak from time to time," Prowl added. Mirage was better with Bluestreak than Smokescreen was, and he was certainly less likely to expose Prowl's sparkling to vice. Though Smokescreen was actually not likely to involve himself in any mayhem with his nephew present. Despite what their sire had so often said, Smokescreen did have restraint.

"Whenever you need me," Mirage replied.

* * *

The mechs separated upon landing in Iacon. Due to Jazz's connections within the Autobots, they bypassed all security and stepped into the city streets within half a joor of landing. Prowl felt a moment of horrific panic as he watched his brother and Mirage drive off down the busy street. This was Iacon. This was _it_. His battle computer fed his unexpected anxiety. All the things that could possibly go wrong, plans for what do to in any of these potential worst case scenarios. Every joint tensed as Prowl fought off the very powerful urge to crash. Jazz stepped in close to Prowl, closer than he would ever have expected, or necessarily wanted in public and placed his servo over the centre of Prowl's back, between his doorwings. The low magnet pulses sent soft shivers of pleasure up and down Prowl's back and through to the corners of his doorwings. Once again, tension in Prowl's frame melted away under Jazz's touch.

"Are you always this tense?" Jazz asked, sounding just slightly exacerbated.

"No," Prowl replied, in too defensive a tone for his own liking.

"Easy Prowler," Jazz soothed gently. "Didn't mean to offend you."

"I apologize for being short with you," he replied and he forced his doorwings to lower from their highest level until they were centre on his back.

"You never have to apologize to me," Jazz said. "Just worried about'cha."

"Thank you, but I assure you I am well," came the Praxian's replied. And he was. His battle computer had dialled back. Iacon was simply just another city-state. A much larger, and vastly different one than Praxus, but it was nothing to fear.

"Have you never left Praxus before?" Jazz asked. Once again, his ability to read Prowl was both a marvel and an irritant.

"No," Prowl replied truthfully. "I never had the need."

"Never heard of a vacation?" The Polihexian asked. "Primus Prowler. I'll show you around later. Follow me home."

Before Bluestreak had separated from his spark, Prowl had configured himself with a small containment seat within his alt mode, and he had become an old servo at placing Bluestreak into the seat as he transformed. The Enforcer decals would need to go at some point; after all, he had terminated his contract. But for now he settled comfortably onto his wheels. Seeing Prowl had Bluestreak and himself under control, Jazz transformed, and took off at a comfortable pace down the road.

Prowl followed Jazz, all the while taking in the sight of every building, bridge, and corner they passed. The construction of Iacon was almost alien to Prowl. The buildings were tall, far taller than those of Praxus, and he wondered how they compared to the mythical Towers of Crystal City. While Praxus had a great many parks interspersed throughout the city, at least through the region of Iacon they were driving through, it was all great buildings, factories, statues, bridges. It was almost claustrophobic. Finally, as they drove from the city centre, the buildings became less grand, less tall, and Prowl saw parks, and other walking spaces.

"Here's home," Jazz announced as he stopped in a bustling little neighbourhood well out from the city hub. It was almost homey. Prowl heard music in the air, floating out from a nearby pub. With the same ease as when he transformed into his alt mode, Prowl transformed out of it. Bluestreak gave a squawk of irritation at being woken, and he did not immediately calm when Prowl crooned at him or stroked his back. A sure sign that he needed to refuel.

"He is hungry," Prowl explained when he saw the question on Jazz's faceplates.

"Let's go inside then," Jazz said. A few mechs and femmes called out greetings, and Jazz waved halfsparkedly in response. Prowl caught glimpses of frowns and shrugging shoulder struts. Jazz must have normally been friendly with his neighbours, somehow not surprising. At the moment he seemed to be paying little attention to the mechs and femmes around them. Instead he looking back at Prowl and the fussing Bluestreak. They were mercifully alone in the lift as it brought them to the eighth floor. Jazz reached and grasped Prowl's servo before he let him from the lift. The soft circles his thumb digit made against Prowl's palm sent a thrill through Prowl's spark.

His spark was a masochist. For all the power of his tactical systems, Prowl knew his spark ruled his reactions to Jazz. Before their sparks had demanded to merge, and to create the base connection that would become a sparkbond if they merged again, Prowl's spark had spun faster whenever Jazz commed him. Prowl had blamed it on the rush of both defying protocol, and the inherent danger of involving himself with a black ops agent. It had since become clear to Prowl that he had actually been infatuated with Jazz, from close to the very beginning of their odd relationship. Would it not just be perfect if Jazz did not feel this spark deep need in return? If the preliminary bond was only one sided? Oh yes, Prowl's spark was indeed a masochist.

"Make yourself comfortable," Jazz said, gesturing to his large, luxurious black couch. One thing that Jazz did not apparently skimp on, was comfort. Actually, it made sense. He chased, or had chased death so often he rewarded himself with comfort when he returned home alive. Prowl sat carefully, arranging his doorwings with care against the soft backing of the couch. His doorwings were happy to sink into it. Bluestreak made a particularly demanding squawk, guaranteeing that Prowl did not luxuriate for even a nanosecond.

"Just a moment, my spark," the carrier whispered softly to his sparkling. His battle computer did not fight him here. It did not offer thousands of courses of actions, protocols, or anything of the sort. When he interacted with Bluestreak, Prowl found his tactical systems quieted just enough to allow his spark to show in every touch and every word spoken to Bluestreak. Prowl drew his fielding line from its socket next to his spark chamber. Bluestreak latched greedily to the end, his small servos gripping it tight as he soothed his hunger.

"A cube for you," Jazz said. He drew Prowl's free servo away from Bluestreak and pressed the cube and pink fuel into Prowl's servo. "I'm thinkin' your supposed to refuel more now that you've got Blue."

"Correct," Prowl replied, a little sheepish that he had not refuelled in several joor. He had fed Blue before they had left his apartment, but had not bothered to refuel himself.

It was Prowl's turn to watch Jazz as the other mech sat stiffly next to him, staring at Bluestreak. He was staring so blatantly that the visor did nothing to disguise it. Prowl frowned just slightly and just for a moment. Jazz was sitting stiffer, and his servos clenched into tight fists; it was as if Jazz thought if he allowed himself to relax he would fall apart.

"Jazz," the former Enforcer began to speak. He searched his tactical systems for words, for advice, for anything to offer Jazz.

"Never wanted a sparklin'," the special ops mech confessed. Prowl forced himself not to recoil. This was not what he wanted to hear. Jazz shook his helm and looked up at Prowl's faceplates. Prowl was taken aback by the fear in the other mech's voice as he rambled on. "Never wanted the responsibility. There's so much at stake, you know? Never wanted anyone to rely on me like that. No sparklings, no mate... Primus. I'm in over my helm already."

"You do not have to, Jazz," Prowl picked his words carefully. His fuel tanks clenched and spasmed violently. He dared not attempt to consume the cube sitting in his servo. "If you do not wish to participate, you do not have to..."

"Oh frag, Prowl," the Polihexian vented, his vocalizer pitch high with emotion. "I'm not runnin' away. I'm not makin' excuses so you'll let me. I just need you to know I'm gonna screw up. On both of you. Don't know what I'm doin'. I don't know what its like to have someone waitin' at home."

"This has not come naturally to me, Jazz," Prowl replied. He hoped his confession would perhaps soothe Jazz's panic. "I have struggled with how to care for Bluestreak. I have wondered if I can possibly be the carrier he will require to grow confident, and capable."

"Really, Prowler?" The expression on the other black and white mech as he answered was anxious hope. "You're doin' alright from what I've seen."

"As Bluestreak grows I expect my tactical systems will be less and less inclined to be silent," the Praxian explained. It pained him to think about it. But on the surface, his expression was schooled. "When this happens, I am unable to express emotion properly due to how these systems are hardwired into my processor. They do not stop me from feeling emotions, but they do stop me from expressing them until the level of emotion reaches such a height that it overwhelms my systems."

"Prowl," the saboteur murmured, his voice was laced with pity.

"I fear I will become incapable of properly expressing and displaying my affection for Bluestreak," Prowl continued. He ignored the way Jazz's pity made his fuel tank twitch. "I do not ever want him to doubt that I love him, but it is possible, even likely that at some point he will."

"Aren't we a pair?" Jazz vented, a brittle chuckle escaping his vocalizer. He looked down at Bluestreak, dozing off as his hunger was satiated. Jazz touched Bluestreak's cheekplate with the tip of one digit. It was a tentative and almost pained gesture. "And if I can't love him, Prowler? What do we do then?"

* * *

_Earth, 1984_

"You were really afraid of Jazz," Cliffjumper said. He shifted. It was slagging uncomfortable sitting on the big, lumpy rock, but he didn't dare complain. Mirage would surely chastise him.

"Terrified," Mirage admitted, rather casually. "I was certain he was going to receive an order to terminate me. Part of me thought the whole thing was a convoluted trap."

"Paranoid glitch," the red minibot teased; without malice. It was odd really. To tease Mirage but to have no desire to hurt him with the words. The story Mirage was telling was giving him a great insight into the spy. Not just in how he spoke of himself but how he spoke of Jazz, Prowl, and especially Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Even if Mirage hadn't realized it at the time, they had become his surrogate family. Something he must have needed desperately.

"Not so bad as Red Alert," the spy countered smoothly. "In any case I was as good as deactivated if I stayed in Praxus. I just assumed that the Autobots would be kinder about my end than the Decepticons."

"When did you start trusting Jazz?" Cliffjumper asked.

Mirage considered the question for a moment before replying: "When I saw him next. He was so hopeless with Bluestreak that there was no way it could have been an act."

* * *

End Chapter 3

AN: You have an update, and I have a beta. Special thanks to Demonsurfer for rising to the challenge. I am working on updates for two other fics at the moment so this one will not likely get another update for another week or two. We'll see how the muse goes. I've a "wonderful" work week ahead of me.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Road Less Travelled By**

**Chapter 4**

Jazz can inspire anyone's temper.

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.

Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.

Warning: war, M/M robots

Pairings: Jazz/ Prowl (friends with benefits), Mirage/ Cliffjumper (friendship/preslash/who-the-frick-knows)

**Klik: One minute, **1.2 kliks

**Breem: 8.3 minutes, **9-ish kliks

**Joor: One Hour, **not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours

**Mega-cycle: One Day,** 93 hours/ joors

**Orn: One Week**, 13 mega-cycles

**Quartex: One Month,** 4 orns

**Stellar Cycle: One Year,** 7.5 quartexes

**Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: **83 stellar cycles

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 900,000,000 B.C.E_

The dark cycle was just ending and Jazz had gone to speak to the Prime. It mattered little that this was Optimus and not Sentinel. Prowl was a Praxian and Praxians had little use for Primes. Bluestreak was still in recharge and Prowl was alone in Jazz's home. He felt like an intruder, an interloper. The weight of Jazz's questioned weighed heavily on Prowl's spark. Nothing in his brief friendship with Jazz had offered him much evidence to support the delusion that Jazz would be an enthusiastic or effective creator. If nothing, the assassin's function in the Autobots was enough to make any sensible Cybertronian question what business Jazz had as a sire.

An assassin! Really! What had possessed Prowl to allow such a mech into his professional life, let alone his private one? What indeed. There was something about Jazz that transended his function. Perhaps it was his sense of honour, his sense of right. Jazz did not kill for profit but on the orders of the Prime myself. He did not kill for pleasure and he did not kill the innocent. Though the former Enforcer had no specific evidence to support the latter thought, everything he knew of Jazz told him that Jazz would not kill anyone he did not himself believe was a threat to life on Cybertron.

Jazz had proven that he could think and act free of the Prime's orders when he had spared Mirage. Still, the visor-clad Autobot had proven time and time again that he would come in and out of Prowl's life as he saw fit. He sought Prowl out when he needed Prowl. But what about when Prowl had needed him?

Damn his pathetic spark. Prowl loathed that he loved Jazz. Had loathed it from the moment he had come to the realization that he did love his rootless friend. This realization had come cycles before their unplanned merge and had been the bane of Prowl's logic computer ever since. There was no logic to the emotion. He could not even claim it was infatuation; Prowl knew damn well the difference between lust and love. Though it may have been the lust and not the love that had kept Prowl's berth open to the handsome mech.

The problem was that as much as Prowl needed Jazz, and he needed him terribly, the former Enforcer did not believe he could rely on him. Yes, this was the thorn at the spark of the matter. Their sparks may have synced but there was no telling what Jazz would do about it. Though Prowl's spark physically ached in the other mech's presence, Jazz seemed not to share the issue. Perhaps he was capable of numbing his spark, of ignoring the sync. If that was the case, what did that mean for Prowl?

Pain.

If they did merge again, if they did form a spark deep bond even that did not guarantee happiness or security for Prowl and his dearest creation. Jazz could easily keep sauntering in and out of their lives, for all of their lives and Prowl could find himself trapped. In the stories of his sparklinghood, strangers discovered spark syncs and bonded forever before falling in love. Did this mean that love was not required for such a sync and such a bond to exist? The idea of such a fate chilled Prowl to his spark.

But if it was to be his fate, what else could Prowl do? He needed Jazz. Damn his spark but he did. Not just for himself but for Bluestreak. More than love for himself, Prowl wanted love for his creation. The love his sire had never held for him. As unfathomable as the idea was, if Jazz was unable to love Bluestreak, Prowl did not know what he would hope to do.

Prowl should have run the moment he had seen that insignia painted on the centre of the Autobot's chest plates; had he obeyed the order put down by Lord Greypoint, Prowl would have done just that.

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 900,000,021 B.C.E_

Someone had set the bar on fire. It was an impressive feat, in a way, given that even here in Praxus' least reputable district, all buildings were metal constructs. The scent of burning high grade and synthetic fibres filled the air. High grade burned hot, no doubt the walls of the interior would be warping already. Prowl surveyed the scene with cold and calculating optics. His tactical systems were running estimates as to the total cost in property damage. It was not staggering, per say, not in the grand scheme of the city. However it would be crushing for the bar owners; Prowl knew the couple well enough. They would not have the funds to rebuild and the Enforcer doubted their insurance would offer adequate help

Miscreants. The bar fight had tumbled into the street where the grappling crowd promised to do even more damage. Too many frames filled the clashing crowd for them to have all been in the bar. No doubt operators, employees and customers of the various dens of ill-repute had joined the fray upon the sight of the burning bar. Whatever could be said from the district, known for the red tint to its street and ambient lighting, the residents and business owners were insular. They took care of their own.

As they were now. These citizens did not trust the Enforcers to fight their battles or to protect their livelihoods. Many of the legitimate businesses for fronts for booster dens, illegal brothels and fight pits. There were key differences between the legal and the illegal brothels, age of the pleasure-bots being one and the acts performed on them being the other. The legal brothels were well marked, with elaborate signs and they were registered with the state. However, the illegal brothels were hidden away. Bars, pits and other businesses being the primary fronts.

Most of Prowl's patrols were spent hunting down these illegal businesses and gathering the necessary evidence to have them raided and closed down. The bar burning to his left was one of the legitimate businesses, which made its destruction all the more a shame.

"A fire crew is required in Zone R-227," Prowl called to the city hub.

"Situation is too unstable for fire crews to attend," the dispatcher replied in as toneless a tone as Prowl himself had spoken. Then again, the dispatcher was a drone. "Request Enforcers contain the violence."

"Understood," Prowl intoned. Let the business be destroyed and the damage spread through to connected buildings while senior Enforcers sit back and decide if the situation calls for A.A.U involvement. In the meantime, Prowl and the five other Enforcers who patrolled this district would be expected to calm the angry crowd.

Prowl's optics scanned the over the crowd to spot each of his fellow Enforcers on site. Of them, Prowl had the highest ranks and he certainly had the most advanced battle computer, this did not guarantee that they would follow his lead. This did not stop Prowl from pinging each of the five Enforcers and transmitting a battle plan.

Mercifully, Prowl's plan was accepted and the six Enforcers spread out to surround the melee. Each Enforcer was equipped with a large spotlight. The six deployed their lights, illuminating the crowd in the bright, white glow. Every mech and femme froze and turned to watch the Enforcers.

"Lay down your arms and return to your homes or places of business," Prowl ordered. He would have preferred to arrested the violent mob but there were limits as to what six lonely Enforcers could hope to do.

He observed the residents who he recognized still completely, frustration plain on their faceplates, many were showing significant cosmetic damage. Most wore only the minimum plating and were not suited to street fighting. Those wearing heavier armour showed the same frustration on their faceplates as those wearing less, but Prowl suspected this frustration had more to do with the interference of the Enforcers, not the situation itself. It was these mechs and femmes who stayed in the crowd. The lightly built and poorly armoured mechs and femmes stepped through the frozen crowd and walked quietly past the Enforcers.

"Keep your sensors at high alert," Prowl ordered across the Enforcer comm. "Be prepared for an assault from behind."

No assault came from the retreating crowd. Prowl was aware that many had no totally retreated. They hovered nearby, watching the Enforcers. The crowd that remained illuminated by the Enforcers began to grumble and snarl. They ranged from mid to high armour and it was the realization that there were heavy armoured mechs on the streets of his district that made Prowl's energon run cold. These could not have been Praxian soldiers; they did not have doorwings. Just what were they doing here in Praxus?

"I repeat, lay down your arms and return to your homes or places of business," Prowl ordered again. He did not yell the command, he did not need to. Prowl's voice had a way of travelling through a crowd.

Plating flared on any number of the stilled combatants. The Enforcers stood firm, unwavering, though Prowl was sure all their sparks were racing, just like his. He was proud of the junior Enforcers for their calm. This crowd was clearly not prepared to disperse. Any number of the enclosed combatants were clenching and unclenching their servos and adjusting their grip on various weapons.

A shot rang out, the projectile and shockwave barreled straight for Prowl. As his doorwings alerted him to the danger, Prowl lowered his sensory appendages as he dropped to his knees and tilted his helm to the right. The shot flew wide above his left shoulder and doorwing. The crowd erupted.

Prowl was on his peds in a nanosecond, ordering his fellow Enforcers to stand firm even as they moved to engage the crowd. Praxians were at a disadvantage in melee fighting. Their sensory wings were famous for their sensitivity, as such they were large, obvious targets.

"Stand down," Prowl commanded the fighters, even as he ordered the Enforcers to charge their shock batons. He dared not let them raise their rifles for fear they shoot each other, or a spectator.

"Slag off," voices from the crowd snarled at the order and Prowl waited for another attack. It did not come, but neither did the crowd calm. Something would have to happen soon or he and the other Enforcers were going to have to run headlong into the crowd and attempt to dissipate with force before someone greyed.

"Dispatch, Advanced Action is required," Prowl called to the hub where he had no doubt Enforcer Command was listening. "The level of violence is escalating. Six Enforcers cannot safely contain three dozen armed combatants."

"Be advised the A.A.U is deployed in Zone H-1313," dispatch replied. "Unit will be on scene when current action has completed."

"We may be required to retreat," Prowl said. He was able to keep his frustration and fury from his voice. The level of his fury was high enough that keeping it from his voice required conscious effort. What was A.A.U doing so close to the Helex Garden? Surely there was no riot exploding in the luxurious setting of the Crystal District.

"Contain the situation," a familiar voice spoke over the droning dispatcher. "Six trained Enforcers should be more than enough to control hooligans."

"Understood," Prowl replied. He left his comm active but not open. If his spark was going to gutter in this idiotic mess, Prowl was going to make certain that his sire heard his end.

"Drop your weapons and lay on the ground," Prowl ordered the crowd. "Lethal force will be used if you do not obey."

When the second shot rang out, Prowl was already moving. He ducked low, flattening his doorwings as he did, and charged. The mech closest to the low level investigator let out a shocked yelp as Prowl thrust his shock baton up into the joint between his raised armour and his moderately armed chassis. A current of electricity crackled over his frame and he dropped limp. Prowl kept moving, using his shock baton to neutralize each mech and femme who entered into his reach. Someone in the crowd had a blaster. It was imperative that Prowl find that combatant and disarm him/her before someone greyed.

The next thing Prowl knew he was face first on the street, his helm rang. He reached for his baton, having realized he had dropped it. It was nowhere in reach. His optics were offline and Prowl struggled to get them to come back online. Suddenly, someone had hold of his arm and was hauling him up to his peds.

"Come on up, mech," the mech said, he draped Prowl's arm over his shoulders. "Can't have ya getting' trampled."

This was the moment when Prowl's optics chose to light up again. His helm was hanging and the street was spinning. The world came back into focused and the first thing Prowl saw was the red insignia of the Autobots painted at the centre of the chest plates of the mech supporting him.

"Can ya stand on your own peds?" The Autobot asked. "'Cause your kinda weighin' me down."

"Excuse me?" Prowl asked, barely managing to operate his vocalizer. Yes. Right. The fight. Prowl pulled away from the Autobot and turned his attention back to the fray. A fist was flying at his helm before Prowl could even track the progress of his fellow Enforcers. He dodged out of reflex, landing within reach of his baton.

Prowl grabbed hold of his weapon and rammed his shoulder up into the lightly armoured abdomen of his attacker in the same fluid movement. As he stood and his attacker stumbled, Prowl brought his shock baton down on the back of the mech's neck. A proximity warning flashed through his processor as a frame came rushing at his back. The Enforcer began to turn, shifting his doorwings quickly back as he did, only to have a large servo catch his right doorwing in a crushing grip. Pain scorched Prowl's circuits as the servo jerked him into air by that same sensory appendage.

Pain did not make Prowl helpless, nor stupid. Before the sensory data could overwhelm him, Prowl shunt down all sensor relays to the limb. Even this did not eliminate the pain but it made it manageable. It made it possible to twist in his attackers grip, kicking his peds, viciously and precisely over the great brute's spark casing. The hit was not disabling on a mech so well armoured but it was enough to make him drop Prowl. Before the brute could regain his balance, Prowl had his rifle out of his subspace, in his servos, firing.

The acid pellets tore through the heavily armoured chassis, rending the spark within to shreds. No sound escape the mech as he guttered before he hint the ground. Prowl took quick note at the power of his rifle and ammo at such a close distance.

He took a single step forward before the building agony of his wrenched appendage made him stumble. The joint itself had received damage and there was no trick Prowl could perform to shut off the relays between that joint and his back struts. Fighting the pain that threatened to swallow him, Prowl turned his helm as he looked over the street. Unbelievably, the combatants, upon witnessing the efficient guttering of their fellow combatant, had stilled.

"Lay down on the ground," Prowl ordered. There was a hiss of static in his voice that he could not suppress. Finally, the remaining mechs and femmes obeyed. Prowl looked about the street to his comrades. He found them in various states of ill-repair. They were bleeding energon, and the youngest of them was receiving treatment for some injury from one of the spectators but all six of them were functioning. It had all gone better than expected.

"Do ya need to take a seat?" The Autobot asked quietly, speaking directly into Prowl's audials. Only then did he realize that he was leaning heavily on the other monochrome mech. Embarrassed and prideful Prowl pulled himself carefully free of the stranger, standing firmly on his own two peds. If the world spun, Prowl ignored it. If his optics threatened to black out from pain and shock, he ignored that too. The mech made a chastising sound and said: "Easy mech. Don't want ya to fall over or nothin'."

Despite his best efforts, Prowl did fall. At the very least, his descent was controlled. He fell to his knees next to the mech he had killed. The Enforcer hung his helm as fought to clear the static from his processor. When his optics onlined again, something on the ruined chassis of the guttered mech caught Prowl's attention.

He tried to drag his right servo over the raised marks but the limb was shaky and slow to respond, fall out from his damaged wing. His whole right side was going numb with shock. Prowl reached with his left servo and felt the greying chassis. Under a poorly done coat of orange paint, was a raised brand. The mech had been a Decepticon.

"Restrain them all," Prowl ordered. He wondered if his comrades could even understand him through the static. It did not matter, they had already begun to deploy stasis cuffs to the surrendered troublemakers' wrists. "Check for hidden markings."

"Smart mech," the Autobot murmured from behind Prowl. "Ya'd be smarter if ya stayed put. Your doorwing's dislocated."

"You should not be here," the Enforcer said. He wanted to face the mech but dared not move for fear of falling flat on his faceplates.

"You're right there," the mech replied, clearly not remotely chastised.

"You are the cause of this," Prowl stated. His tactical systems had drawn this much of a conclusion.

"Yeah, sorry about that," the Autobot apologized. He walked around Prowl and knelt before him. A bright blue visor lit up silver faceplates and a black helm as the Autobot gently reached and touched the side of Prowl's helm. "Designation's Jazz. You're chevron's cracked and you're helm's dented. I don't think ya should get up, hmm?"

"You should leave," the concussed Enforcer advised. The black servos stroking his helm were gentle. Prowl was tempted to lean in to the touch. He resisted. If anyone asked him why he did not detain the mech, Prowl just would blame shock.

"Should I?" Jazz asked in a soft voice. "Right. I lost my false-plate in the bar."

"You will be detained," Prowl stated.

"That would be a problem," the monochrome Autobot chuckled. "Ya okay where you are?"

"Yes," the similarly monochrome Enforcer replied. "Go, before I order you detained."

"Yeah, yeah," Jazz laughed at Prowl. "Tell me you're designation first."

"Why?" Prowl asked. The Autobot's odd disposition was putting far to much pressure on the Enforcer's already stressed processor.

"I never forget a friend," Jazz replied. He smiled and Prowl was briefly rendered speechless. It was a handsome smile.

"Prowl. My designation is Prowl."

"Ya may not realize it, Prowl but ya save my spark, I ain't gonna forget," the Autobot explained. "Take care of yourself."

With that, the Autobot stepped around Prowl and into the crowd of spectators. After a few kliks, one of the other Enforcers, a mech called Sideburn stepped through the mess of sprawled out detainees and crouched at Prowl's side. By now it had become difficult for Prowl to think, let alone to speak. A prick in the energon line at the side of Prowl's neck alerted the Enforcer that the younger mech had injected him with a pain killer. The nanites carrying the medical code would flood his systems through his energon and ease his discomfort. A klik later and Prowl was sagging down into Sideburn's arms.

"Easy, sir," Sideburn said. "Lean on me."

Before Prowl could say anything, sirens broke the dark cycle silence, announcing the arrival of the Advance Action Unit. Prowl lifted his faceplates. He suspected he was scowling. Heavily armed Praxian Enforcers stepped from their transport. Sheer stubborn will got Prowl to his peds, though Sideburn had to wrap an arm around his waist and hold Prowl's left arm over his shoulder to keep him on his peds. The officer in charge walked towards them.

"A.A.U will take it from here," the officer announced. Prowl looked down his nose plates at the mech.

"Your services are no longer required," the Enforcer replied coolly. "A fire crew would still be helpful, however."

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 900,000,000 B.C.E_

Jazz was waiting at Optimus' office before Prime and guard arrived shortly after first light. Concern was obvious in the new Prime's optics and old familiar Ironhide looked at the saboteur with a frown. The target of their perceptive optics sighed and dropped his easy-going mask. Stress and melancholy stole his smile. He must have been a sorry sight. Optimus gestured for Jazz to enter the stately office, guard and Prime followed suit.

"Did you contact your friend?" Optimus asked. "Are he and the others well?|

"Ya, I brought'em home," Jazz sighed. The panic of his flight from Iacon had not yet entirely dissipated. "I shoulda commed ya and let ya know when I got back in but I was a little distracted."

"What's troubling you?" The Prime asked. This mech was no more and no less perceptive than his predecessor. But the question was one that would never have made it passed Sentinel's lip plates. He wouldn't have cared to ask.

"He had a surprise for me," the head of Special Ops explained. "Prowl... My friend... He had a sparklin'... Separated a couple of quartexes back... My sparklin'."

"Wait one slagging minute," Ironhide growled, surprising both the Ops mech and the Prime. "How the frag did you have a spark a mech 'n not know it?"

"Erm," Jazz mumbled and fidgeted in place. The last thing he had expected was a lecture from Ironhide. A glare, absolutely but a lecture? "I hadn't seen'm in a stellar-cycle."

"You last saw this Prowl before Sentinel's demise," Optimus thought allowed.

"I got word the same day I left that Sentinel got himself slagged," the Ops mech confirmed.

"While I am truly grateful that you have plunged helm first into your new position, it was never my intention that you drop your life to rebuild the Special Ops," the Prime said with a faint sigh in his voice.

"It wasn't that," Jazz confessed. "I mean that's my excuse but it's not... I ran away. We merged... We never merged and I freaked out 'n ran away and I didn't call 're write or nothin'."

"You idiot," Ironhide rumbled.

"It's kinda normal for us," the Ops mech said rather meekly.

"I think I'm going to hit you," the guardmech groused, his optics dimmed and his brow ridge burrowed dangerously.

"Thank you, Ironhide," Optimus said with an exacerbated tone. "Though I share the sentiment."

"I've been breezin' in 'n outta Prowl's life for a quarter vorn," Jazz admitted. "Only saw 'm when Sentinel sent me to Praxus so a couple times a stellar-cycle. We tried to act like we were just... Friends or somethin' but there's somethin' heavier hangin' between us and the merge just proved it."

"What?" The Prime asked gently.

"Sync," the monochrome saboteur explained grimly.

"Slagging idiot," Ironhide sighed. "You know those are a good thing right? Something special."

"Not if you're me!" Jazz exclaimed. "I'm liable to get myself slagged before I'm halfway close to old. Never wanted to take anyone with me. Never wanted to have anyone to leave behind."

"It seems to me that you've had someone to leave behind for some time," Optimus observed. "You've been leaving your Prowl. If you feel the sync, no doubt he does as well."

"Probably more," the Ops mech offered. "Nothin' escapes him. I don't know what to fraggin' do about it."

"Start with your sparkling," the Prime advised. "Support his carrier. What have you done with them anyway? And the young mech you spared."

"Prowl and Bluestreak are at my place," Jazz replied. "Prowl's brother already has a place for him and Mirage. Smokey doesn't like me much. I don't blame 'm mind ya."

"Are they going to remain with you?" Optimus asked. "What does Prowl intend to do?"

"Of course their stayin' with me!" The saboteur exclaimed, indignant. "And Prowl's probably already lookin' for work. I can take care of him! But he's not gonna want to rely on me."

"Do you blame him?" The Prime asked. "You've not been the most reliable of lovers or sires up to this point. He will not want to rely on a position in your berth for the well being of his creation."

"I don't want him for a berthmech!" Jazz yelled. His visor glowed ice blue from the bright optics behind them. "I just want him to be there for Bluestreak. They should have that first year together. Prowl shouldn't be goin' off to work when Bluestreak's only a couple of quartexes hold. They deserve that time together!"

"Tell him that," Optimus said. "His world has turned on its helm. No doubt he is feeling powerless."

"Thanks Boss Bot," the saboteur replied, sheepish now. "You too 'Hide... 'Cause you're right... and that's sorta weird."

"Mechling," Ironhide snorted. His temper did appear to have smoothed. Who would have thought that Ironhide of all mechs had a soft spot for carriers and sparklings?

"When everyone has settled, I would like to meet your creation," the Prime said as Jazz rose to leave. "And Mirage. But only when the young mech has settled. I believe he has been terrorized enough without thinking I plan to deactivate him with my own servos."

"You got it," Jazz replied. He wasn't cheery or especially jovial but some of the melancholy had gone.

He only had one berth. Prowl and he had shared it, with Bluestreak recharging nearby in his portable containment berth. Both had been exhausted and had fallen into recharge easily enough. Strange that Jazz was only realizing now that they had recharged separate from each other but in the same berth. The berth in question was large and luxurious and Prowl had been able to scoot to one side.

Tired as he had been, Jazz had dropped into recharge without noticing. He hadn't noticed that the mech in his berth had carefully manoeuvred himself as far away from Jazz as possible. Out of his reach.

Frag. So Prowl probably was worried about being kept as a berthmech. What the Pit did he take Jazz for?

* * *

_Earth, 1984 CE_

"Don't you work the first cycle?" Mirage asked, pausing from his story and glancing over at the red minibot.

"I'm fine," Cliffjumper replied, he waved off the blue and white mech's concern. "Not like we can't go days without recharge."

"You're certain?" The spy asked. He was surprised with himself, with how easy it was to recount the story. It was proving cathartic.

"Just a bit more and we'll go back," the minibot said. "But you need to tell me the rest at some point."

"I believe I could manage that," Mirage replied. He was surprised to realize that the smile on his own lip plates was sincere.

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 900,000,000_

The coos and chirps of a sparkling greeted Jazz when he entered his cozy apartment. Not just any sparkling, of course, his sparkling. It was better screaming and it was better than silence. Jazz hadn't tuned on his stereo since since he had left for Praxus. Perhaps this would have been formal for any other mech but not for Jazz. There was always a tune playing in his processor and usually one humming in his vocalizer.

Having Prowl here in his space had thrown Jazz through a loop. He had no idea how Prowl felt about music. For all Jazz knew, Prowl hated any and all music. This did seem unlikely but it was perfectly likely that the stoic Praxian would dislike background music. Prowl seemed more likely to enjoy listening to music for music's sake, focusing entirely on the notes played and song.

Music was like energon to Jazz. The lack of a beat meeting him upon entry to his home did not feel right. It felt alien; it didn't feel like home. But it wasn't his home anymore, not his alone and Jazz need desperately for Prowl to feel comfortable here. Jazz knew his apartment was nothing like Prowl's. Where the Enforcer's, former Enforcer's had been utilitarian and spartan, the saboteur's apartment was almost cluttered. It wasn't that Jazz was sloppy; rather, it was a matter of him liking things. He had two large and comfortable couches, an expensive entertainment system that stood next to a tower of disks and datapads containing both music and literature. He had a statue here, a crystal there. Every surface contained something.

It must have been driving Prowl mental already. Jazz vented a sigh as he walked through the entry way to his apartment and into the main living space. His spark constricted at the sight in front of him. Prowl sat on the floor of the living room, in front of the larger of the two couches, with Bluestreak laying on his abdomen by his knees. The sparkling cooed and chirped as he wriggled on the floor, rolling from side to side but never quite all the way over. Prowl looked us at the sound of Jazz's ped steps.

"Your meeting went well?" Prowl asked. Jazz was frustrated by the way the carrier's doorwings tensed on the mech's back. That was another reason Jazz loved doorwings, they were an excellent tell.

"Yeah," Jazz replied. Feeling both daring and frustrated and rather lost, Jazz sat on the floor next to Prowl. "Optimus was glad to hear you're all safe. He wants to meet Mirage... and Bluestreak when everyone's settled."

"I imagine that will not be an issue," the former Enforcer replied. "Is something bothering you Jazz?"

"Yeah," the ex-assassin admitted. "I know you're probably already lookin' for work. I'm bettin' that's what you've already been lookin' today. I... Could you not? Just for now? In the perfect world you wouldn't be working for a stellar-cycle after carryin' and don't ya think Blue 'n you deserve that time?"

"I do not deserve to burden you..." Prowl began.

"No!" Jazz snapped, interrupting Prowl and startling the sparkling who promptly wailed. "Sorry. Sorry. Slag it Prowl. Ya could never be a burden. I'm the one that got you in a spot 'n wasn't there to help. Let me make it up to ya know? Please?"

"If you are certain," Prowl said. Bluestreak was already soothed, chirping happily up at his carrier.

_"And if I can't love him..."_

"Bluestreak doesn't make you uncomfortable?" Prowl asked. His tone had dropped, his voice quieter, more tentative.

"I'm afraid of 'm," Jazz admitted. "But I can learn. I will learn. Stay. Please."

"Very well," the monochrome Praxian agreed, though clearly tentatively.

Tentative was fine; it was not as though Jazz himself didn't feel like he was walking on nails. His spark hurt. A mech hood of capture, interrogation and torture had steeled Jazz against pain and he was able to ignore it. There was strain around Prowl's optics and strain in the stance of his doorwings. The Praxian was not used to pain, not like this at least.

Jazz wanted to wait. He wanted mega-cycles, orns, maybe even quartexes to acquaint himself with Prowl. What he knew of the mech was only surface level and professional observations. That was much to build a life on, a love on. But Prowl was hurting and Jazz couldn't bare it.

He already knew he was capable of love. It was the only thing that gave Jazz hope that love for this fragile mechling before him would come. Love had kept him returning to Prowl, even if it had only been for a dark cycle here and there. Jazz had never dared to linger longer, fear that his presence would endanger both Prowl the mech and the mech's career. Fear that Sentinel Prime would discover the liaison. Primus only knew what the Prime would have thought. At the time Jazz had called it lust and not love. But when it had driven his chest plates to part and his spark to merge with the silvery blue spark beneath him, there could be no more denying that Jazz was spark deep in love with Prowl.

That epiphany, not the sync of their sparks, had driven Jazz from Prowl's berth, from Prowl, with his metaphorical tail between his legs. The sync wouldn't have been so terrifying, so overwhelming if not for love. There wasn't the same fear in the thought of bonding his spark to one he didn't care about, disgust sure, but not fear. Jazz wouldn't have cared about dragging a mech he didn't love into the Well with him when he inevitably got himself slagged but one that he loved?

And if he got himself slagged and took Prowl with him, Bluestreak would have no one. The prospect made Jazz want to recoil into himself with guilt. That was a fear greater than just taking Prowl with him. He had never desired to risk orphaning a creation. This alone was the reason Jazz had swore to never sire or to carry.

Bluestreak wriggled and writhed along the floor until he was laying awkwardly on his side, craning his little helm to look at his bewildered sire. Jazz stared down at the small face, the large brilliant optics. The sparkling cooed, then chirped. Out of reflex, the new sire chittered back without thinking. Apparently this was the right thing to do, not just because the unintelligible babbling picked up and Bluestreak became even more animated but Prowl smiled.

"So," Jazz sighed after a few more kliks of chittering and chattering. "I guess we've got to do something about this sync, right?"

Prowl froze completely. His face plates locked in an expressionless mask. Still sitting to Prowl's left, Jazz reached his right servo and pressed his palm against stunned Praxian's chest plates. He felt the frantic pulse of Prowl's spark under his palm plating. Humming softly to calm his own spark, Jazz stroked his thumb digit against Prowl's chassis.

"I know my spark hurts," the saboteur continued. "And I can see on your faceplates that you're hurting too."

"Yes," Prowl's whisper was barely audible.

"It's gonna keep hurtin' until we merge again," Jazz said. "We're kinda lovers, kinda strangers. When we do merge, we'll be bondmates."

"Jazz," the Praxian said, he pulled back from Jazz's servo. "We do not..."

"Yes, we do," the Polyhexian interrupted. "I can handle my own pain but I hate to see ya hurtin'."

"I am not sure," Prowl replied. Looking away from Jazz, he picked Bluestreak off the floor and cradled the sparkling to his chassis. He kept his optics focused on his creation; his digits ghosted over the small frame. Every cable and strut in his frame was tense.

"Don't trust me?" Jazz asked. "Ya think I won't be there in the mornin'?"

"You have yet to be," the former Enforcer said. The comment could have been pointed, but it wasn't.

"You're right," the saboteur admitted. "I've been comin' and goin' as I pleased. I've been takin' advantage of ya for cycles. I've been selfish 'n I'm so sorry. Ya don't need to worry about me disappearin' all the time. My function is in Iacon now. I'm not sayin' I won't have to go on a mission from time to time but I won't ever leave with out talkin' with ya first. Lettin' ya know when I'll be back."

"A merge and a bond are unavoidable in the end," Prowl said. "But still, I hazard to risk my spark..."

_For nothing._

"I love ya, ya know," Jazz said. This time he reached between Prowl's doorwings. He didn't move his servo; Jazz just needed to touch. Jazz felt Prowl's systems hiccough at his confession. "This isn't the right way to tell ya 'n it's probably not the right time but I need ya to know that I do. I love ya."

"You love me," Prowl thought aloud. He couldn't seem to believe it. "You love me... Truly?"

"So much. When I found out the 'Cons were after Mirage, I was terrified I'd lost ya for good," Jazz confessed. He shifted about so he sat before Prowl and pulled the doorwinged mech onto his lap. Bluestreak chirred as he was held between his creators. Jazz reached up his servos to cup Prowl's face plates and said: "I love ya. There's so much I don't know about ya and I want to learn everything. Stay with me? Bond with me?"

"I will," the Praxian replied, the tension in his frame bled away. Cradling Bluestreak in one arm, Prowl reached up and wrapped his right servo around Jazz left wrist. "I love you as well."

* * *

_Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E_

Thought his shift would not begin for several joor, Highground always rose with the end of the dark cycle. Day and night were artificial on Cybertron. They orbited no star. But old habits, and old memories were slow to die and their culture mimicked the night by dimming the lights on their great towers and called this the dark cycle and it lasted fifteen joor. The first lights of the city-core's towers were illuminating when the Enforcer lieutenant sat at his work terminal.

He was spending more time at this terminal and less at the station when it came to his paperwork and data entry. His mate preferred it this way. It wasn't as though they were spending anymore time together. No, his mate just didn't trust him. Highground vented an angry breath. Nothing he said could convince Dasher that he had not interfaced with a subordinate, let alone merged.

The slagging rumour mill was tearing his family apart and Highground was unable to stop it. He couldn't even demote or transfer the Enforcers who had mentioned him as a possible sire for Prowl's newspark. Any move the lieutenant made against the mechs would be seen as revenge and evidence that he did have an affair. He was impotent both at home and at work; Highground hated it.

In an attempt to avoid further fall out from the mess with Prowl, Highground had distanced himself from the carrying mech. He had known that the carrying was proving hard on the quiet Enforcer, that had been obvious. It had probably been more obvious to Highground given that he had carrier mechlings he and Dasher shared. Neither of his carryings had been especially difficult but they would have been the Pit without his bonded spark. Had Highground been a good superior, he would have offered Prowl alternate duties, flexible shifts, anything really. Instead, spurned on by Dasher's anger and the rumours surrounding he and Prowl, Highground had only made life and function more difficult for Prowl.

It had been a relief when Prowl had been placed on medical leave. Highground had been able to push him to the back of his mind and to focus on Dasher and on the task of convincing his mate that he had not sired another mech's creation. Six quartexes later and Dasher was no more convinced of his innocent and Prowl's return to the deptarment was imminent. It shouldn't have been, Prowl's return that was. A carrier was generally give the first stellar-cycle of his/her creation's life free from their professional responsibilities. But Command had made it clear that if Prowl wanted to remain in his position as an investigator, he had to return, soon. Highground should have been chastising his superiors and setting Prowl up for the full carrier leave that he was owed. Once again, Highground failed to support his subordinate for fear of his own reputation and his mate's wrath.

Feeling powerless and frustrated, Highground activated his work terminal. Unexpectedly, there was an urgent message in his work mailbox. Any urgent matter should have resulted in a comm call, no matter the hour. Unease hit the Enforcer Lieutenant in the spark when he saw the sender was Prowl. He almost deleted the e-mail for fear of Dasher's reaction but commonsense prevailed. Dasher had no access to his Enforcer files and e-mails.

"Primus damn it," he swore upon reading the resignation letter. "Slagging Pit!"

"What has you so riled up?" Dasher asked from behind him. The Enforcer jerked with surprise; he should have sensed his mate coming.

"It doesn't matter," Highground grumbled. The stellar-cycle of helpless impotence boiled over into anger. "It doesn't matter one slagging bit. You aren't going to give a frag. You haven't given a frag about a thing I've said for a cycle."

"Highground!" His mate snapped back. "What in the Pit has gotten into you?"

"What has gotten into me?" The infuriated mech sputtered. "You've got the nerve to ask me that? Of course you do because I'm the one in the wrong, aren't I? If I'd just admit my guilt and apologize it would be okay, right? Frag that and frag you."

"Highground," Dasher said his name with alarm.

"I never merged with anyone before you or after you," Highground continued his tirade, helpless to stop. "But you wouldn't, you won't believe me. Even when we merged again and you saw through my spark you still didn't believe me. Everything in my life has been about proving my innocence to you, even my command. I let our conflict affect my leadership, my Enforcers. I made life the Pit for that mech because I was afraid you would see any favour, any act of leniency as a sign of my guilt. I should have told you, I should have told Command to frag yourselves."

"I'm listening," his mate entreated quietly.

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" The Enforcer replied. His anger lashed inwards, to dig vicious gouges into his spark. "Prowl is a good mech and an even better Enforcer. He's, he was a better Enforcer than his rank would suggestion. My close rate is what it is because Prowl helped! He helped because he was never going to be given the chance to put his own tactical system to good use so he helped me so that he could help Praxus. Instead of being grateful, I shunned him, abandoned him and ignored every vicious taunt as his colleagues called him a cold-sparked whore to behind his back and to his faceplates. When he sought help from me I suggested he seek a transfer if he wouldn't name the sire."

Dasher was silent now. His servos were on Highground's shoulders and this was the first time in a stellar-cycle that the Enforcer felt a real connection to his mate. It wasn't a comfort, not really, not when it fed his guilt the way it did.

"It doesn't matter anymore because he resigned, effective today. His family, his life is in danger and instead of calling me, the station, Command, his sire, he's run off to Iacon with the mech that sparked him. It was a safer option, a better option to call a mech he hadn't heard a whisper from since he kindled than it was to call us. We're supposed to support each other. We're slagging Enforcers; we're supposed to take care of our own. But we didn't take care of him so he's run to Iacon and who the frag knows what that mech is going to expect of Prowl. What is Prowl going to have to do to keep his new creation safe?"

"So bring him back," Dasher said, calming. His servos know glided across Highground's shoulders.

"What?" That was the last thing Highground had expected Dasher to suggest.

"Go to Iacon and bring the mech back," his mate repeated.

* * *

End Chapter 4

AN: Poor Jazz, everyone thinks he just wants Prowl for a berthwarmer.

It's been a while since I've updated this. No promises when the next update is coming. I've got a couple more stories that need attention before I come back to this.


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